


Unknowable

by quinoaquin



Series: Redeemable Series [psychopath!Crowley AU] [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Dark!Crowley, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts, abuse of italics but also abuse of aziraphale if you catch my drift, but not like evil, he's doing his best!, idk why I wrote a human AU but it's interesting i promise, it's possibly either much less or much more dark than the tags suggest, sort of!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinoaquin/pseuds/quinoaquin
Summary: Crowley offers a reluctant Aziraphale an outrageous amount of money in exchange for doing one very simple, yet very difficult thing.Human AU, mind the tags*HIATUS*
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, Crowley/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Redeemable Series [psychopath!Crowley AU] [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650787
Comments: 252
Kudos: 220





	1. You Can't Control What Crosses Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> **Hey! Just so you don't waste your time with something that's not your cup of tea, here's some more info (that doesn't give away too much) before you start reading!**
> 
> **Crowley** : many sociopathic traits, difficulty experiencing empathy and regret, some violent tendencies, comes from a rich family with abusive parents, can be very manipulative.
> 
>  **Aziraphale** : a kind and goodhearted person, works as a bartender, is afraid of Crowley but feels drawn to him.
> 
>  **Anathema** : Crowley's lifelong friend who has kept him out of trouble but really walks to line of toxic
> 
> Enjoy!

Spring, 1994  


Anathema met Crowley when they were both children. Crowley had just moved into the neighborhood, taking up residence in what Crowley called a house but Anathema thought was a castle - turns out, as she learned many years later, castles can be houses if you're filthy fucking rich.

Naturally, Crowley's family also owned lots of beautiful, white horses, and that's how it all started - with "the horse incident".

Anathema could hear the animal's cries from where she was playing at a river nearby, and without thinking started to run as fast as she could towards the source of distress. She was out of breath when she made it to the top of the hill, bending forward to rest her hands on her knees and take a few deep breaths as she scanned the field before her. Then she saw it - a beautiful, snow-white horse lying on the ground, tied to a post with a rope. There were angry red marks running across their body, visible even from where she was standing. The horse was attempting to stand up, struggling pathetically.

Anathema noticed two figures a few feet away - an older woman was holding a boy with dark red hair - who was holding a whip. As Anathema began to run closer, she noticed that the woman's face was stained with tears, but the boy's eyes were dry. The woman let go of the boy suddenly, pushing away at him halfheartedly, and when he fell back to the ground she walked quickly to the injured horse. Anathema hurried over to the boy. As she offered her hand and helped him up, she noticed small blood splats over his clothes and hands.

When Anathema's mother came looking for her more than an hour later, the two kids were playing in a tall field of wheat. Her mom promptly dragged her away from the still blood-covered boy, and when they got home, she sat her down and told her to never go near him again. _Your father saw it,_ she said, _he beat that horse, nearly killed the poor thing_.

As soon as Anathema finished her cereal the next morning though, she ran over to where she last saw the boy, and found him not far off. "I'm gonna follow you _forever_ and make sure you never hurt another horse!" Anathema screamed at him then, and proceeded to do just that.

She followed him around the entire day. Crowley rarely spoke and was just so _strange_ , Anathema thought, not at all like her other friends, but there were so many fun things to do in the castle Crowley lived in that Anathema soon forgot all about it. And maybe her dad was wrong, anyway. She was old enough now to know parents weren't always right about everything.

. . .

More than twenty years later, Anathema was still by his side. Crowley never hurt another horse again - at least as far as she knew - but he was still... him. He was still that same boy, with that sometimes unnervingly empty look in his eye that seemed to come to life at the wrong time and in all the wrong ways.

Despite all that, Crowley did seem to genuinely _care_ about Anathema, and even went so far as to tell her he loved her a few times. She took those confessions with a grain of salt and didn't particularly enjoy hearing them in the first place - she'd learned that love meant something very different for Crowley, and wasn't sure she wanted to be on the receiving end of it. But he wanted to "be good" - he told her so often and meant it, as far as she could tell. He also trusted Anathema to teach him what that meant. And she tried, for years and years, keeping Crowley close - because he was her friend, her _best_ friend really, but more importantly... he was her responsibility. If Crowley ever... if anything ever _happened_ to someone, Anathema would blame herself.

So this was her life. Probably forever. Because although he did seem to be improving, even managing to feel something _good_ every now and then, Anathema could never really be sure. She could never really _know_. Maybe he was just getting better at what Crowley used to call 'the performance' - swearing he only ever did it for other people, not her. Indeed, Crowley didn't pretend, not with her. Oh, no. _She_ got to have the absolute mis-fucking-fortune of _knowing_ him.

* * *

Fall 2002

" _Always_ tell me the truth, always always _always,_ " Anathema told him many years ago after finding a girl Crowley had sworn he had no interest in, passed out from drinking and locked in Crowley's dorm closet. "You said you didn't want to hurt her. Now tell me the truth, _all of it_."

And Crowley did as he was told - told her the truth, all of it, uncensored, with none of the usual sugar-coating. Anathema watched him as he spoke, Crowley's face as neutral and dead-looking as ever as he described... unspeakable things, awful things, and Anathema was kneeling in front of a trash can, emptying her stomach before Crowley even got to the _juicy_ parts.

"You said the truth," Crowley said from behind her, defensively. "And I wasn't going to _do_ any of those things."

Anathema stared at her half-digested lunch in the trashcan. She didn't want to turn around, couldn't face him, not yet. "I know," she said. _Lied_. Because she didn't know, not at all.

How could she _possibly_ trust this man wouldn't do the things he'd described when he was capable of _thinking_ them in the first place? A normal, healthy person wasn't _capable_ of coming up with that sort of shit and- and... _fuck_ , Anathema cursed under her breath - she couldn't let Crowley see her right now or he'd _know_ , he'd know she was thinking those hurtful things about him. Though the fact that she just _vomited_ merely from hearing his unfiltered thoughts might have tipped him off.

(Every now and then, Anathema swore she could _sense_ the dark energy radiating from him, sinister and malevolent and unpredictable, and then she'd hear those... godawful screams of the white and red horse in her head and remember the blood-stained hands on that little boy, and it would all just be... too much, just _too much_ for such a young girl to bear all on her own, and she'd be unable to stop the frustration and fear and hatred and disgust that she sometimes felt for her best friend from overpowering her love for him and becoming visible on her face. And in those moments she just went by instinct _,_ curling her lips in disgust at him, slamming her fists against his chest, hurling objects in his direction, screaming hateful accusations at him or doing any number of things she later regretted but dammit, she just wanted to _hurt_ the- the _vile_ thing in front of her sometimes. Not the way _he_ wanted to hurt others, of course - her need felt... _righteous,_ like something she _had_ to do, like it was _good._ Like pouring holy water on a demon or cutting a poisonous serpent's head off with the sharp edge of a shovel. And when she succeeded in hurting him, when her cruel words managed to shake up his shell of a soul enough for him to _feel_ it, it would be only moments before she was apologizing and telling him she didn't mean any of it, ' _but at least it made you feel something, right, this is good, it's a good thing, Crowley_ ' and he'd nod and she'd be forgiven, and they would both try their best to do better until one of them failed again and the cycle repeated.)

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light touch on her shoulder then and she jerked violently, jumping forward and away from the touch, spilling the contents of the trashcan as she scrambled over it before turning around. Now facing Crowley, she saw something that - perhaps - looked vaguely like hurt on his face. It was too strange, too _Crowley_ for it to be his 'performance' - he could do better than that. He seemed to recognize her reluctance.

"Sorry, sorry, it's fine, _I_ 'm fine," she said, trying her best to hide the fear and anger and revulsion she still felt throbbing in her chest. Crowley looked unconvinced.

"You're a bad liar," he told Anathema, who held his gaze.

"Yeah... _You_ aren't though, are you?" she returned unkindly, more of a statement than a question, and Crowley was the first to look away.

"I don't lie to _you_ ," Crowley said quietly at his feet, keeping his body limp and slow as he shuffled slightly back and away from her, trying to appear harmless - just the way Anathema had taught him throughout the years.

(1. "C _ould you not freaking **loom** , Crowley?", 2. "Stop **staring** at me like that", 3. "Fuck, don't- don't **touch** me, you-!", 4. "Don't **raise your voice** like that, it scares people", 5. "Where are your contacts? Don't **look** at me with those ugly yellow-"_ (Well, the last one was his mother's. An old classic.))

 _Ah shit_ , thought Anathema, _he saw it_. _He's gonna crawl back into his shell and send out some... hologram, and play a recording of some emotion he saw somewhere, on someone else._ She finally got up from the floor, standing to face him.

"Right," she sighed as she cleaned some of the sick off her shirt and pants. "You don't lie, you just _don't tell me things_."

"I can't tell you every single thought that crosses my mind, how would that work?"

Anathema felt a spark of anger. "Don't play stupid, Crowley. You know exactly what sort of _things_ I'm talking about."

Crowley's eyes darted away again, and he was _clearly_ trying to think of a way to get out of this and _ah, here we go_ , she thought, _wily fucking bastard_. Anathema felt like punching him for the millionth time since they've known each other.

"You know I can't always tell," Crowley said, looking at her now, his eyes big and vulnerable and his voice soft and innocent. "That's why I need you, Anathema."

 _Motherfucker_ , she thought, her hands forming tight fists. "Don't pull that shit with me, Crowley, or I swear to god I'm gonna walk away right now and fucking disappear."

Whatever emotion Crowley was attempting to simulate on his face was gone with a blink, and Anathema was too fucking pissed off to shiver. That wicked energy of his was suddenly pouring off him in waves.

"You're not going to leave me," he said, quietly, calmly - _confidently_ , the fucking bastard - and Anathema could hear the threat behind it. She pressed her lips into a thin line.

"You sound mighty sure of yourself there, _friend_ ," she hissed, and his flinch was so minuscule no one but Anathema would've ever noticed. "And you're gonna make sure of that, are you?"

They stood there, watching each other, neither willing to admit to the other that they were afraid.

"Yes," Crowley replied, finally.

Anathema's nostrils flared, face contorting in anger. "How you gonna do that, Crowley?"

He was almost like a statue, unmoving and silent.

"You gonna lock me up in your closet? Huh? Gonna keep me like a fucking _pet_?"

Crowley said nothing, but the words that were coming from Anathema were having an effect. _Snake_ _\- meet shovel_.

"Yeah, you've thought about that, haven't you? Any other sick fantasies involving me I should be aware of? All that- all that- fucking- _psycho shit_ you wanted to do to that girl? What's stopping you from doing that shit to me, huh? Why don't you just bash my fucking head in _right now_ and-"

For what seemed like the longest moment of her life, Anathema actually thought she was going to die. So many thoughts ran through her head in those few seconds that they seemed like a fucking eternity as she stood trembling in her friend's strong hold. And on the question of fight or flight, she was, it would seem, in favour of the third option - freeze in complete terror. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She opened her eyes when she felt a warm palm slowly and softly drawing large circles on her back. Air rushed into her lungs again, kick-starting her brain. The circles on her back continued, and slowly but surely began to relax her taut muscles. _He's hugging me_ _,_ she thought in disbelief. She heard Crowley whisper something but she couldn't make it out though the loud drumming of her heart.

"What?" she managed.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh."

Crowley squeezed her harder then, pressing her closer, only to loosen the embrace again when Anathema tensed. He kept moving his hand on her back.

"You said to tell you the truth. All of it," he said, sounding a little desperate.

"Yeah. I did, didn't I," Anathema returned, trying to chuckle but it sounded more like a sob. Christ. This was life with Crowley. The man who felt barely anything but made you feel so intensely a mix of emotions that did not belong together. Like affection and disgust. Love and fear. Anathema swore to herself she would be more prepared next time, she wouldn't get this hysterical again when Crowley was honest with her. (Which is what she told herself every time.) _"I can't control what crosses my mind,"_ Crowley said to her once, and Anathema told him that sounded like a lazy excuse. Crowley agreed.

But it was Anathema's _responsibility_ to know his thoughts, wasn't it? That meant she had to be able to handle hearing him speak about these things and, more importantly, _he_ had to be willing to speak of them and that meant she _had to_ do better. She had to stop punishing him for _thinking_.

She felt the hold tighten again, only slightly.

"I won't ever harm you. Not you. I swear it."

Despite everything, Anathema believed him. That was the last time Crowley ever threatened her for a long, long time.

But then... _that man_ came along.


	2. Calm The Fuck Down and Party

Now  


"Wipe that smile off your face, dude, you're giving me the creeps," Anathema said as she dropped down in the empty seat next to Crowley. "Christ, you know Alice just told me to, and I quote, ' _be more approachable, like Crowley over there_ '?"

Anathema's rant resulted in Crowley's 'performance smile' being replaced by an _actual_ one, and Anathema smiled back. Granted, Crowley's _real_ smile was far, _far_ more unsettling than the other one, but not to Anathema, not really. She cherished any expression of genuine (positive) emotion from her friend, rare as they were. They were small victories - proof of progress. Usually.

"Would be easier if I weren't capable of being approachable, wouldn't it?" Crowley said, his fake smile back.

It was such a charming and charismatic smile, Anathema really couldn't stand to look at it for long. She swallowed loudly and knew Crowley must have noticed she was uncomfortable. Even after all these years, Crowley still made her feel... _weird_. Anathema's theory (which she never shared with Crowley) was that her body was learning to ignore all the subtle signs of danger that he radiated, and her brain was trying to ignore many of the facts it had stored concerning Crowley. It was like moving closer to the source of danger when all of your instincts were screaming to run like hell. But when they were around other people, when her friend was putting on the performance, Crowley fit right in the dip of the damn Uncanny valley curve - others couldn't see it, but it unnerved Anathema.

Crowley was staring at her. "You done?" he asked, his real face on just for her, and Anathema relaxed. _You trust him_ , she told himself. _He's not manipulating you, he's doing this for other people, it's not his fault he can't be himself around other people._

"Yeah, yes," Anathema breathed, smiled. "Sorry. It's just- you know. Hate it when you're- when you have to be like this," she said sheepishly.

They spent the next hour keeping to themselves in the corner of the bar, talking (well, Anathema did most of the talking) and drinking (Anathema did most of the drinking, as well), and Crowley, mercifully, kept his features honest – that is to say, eerily calm and emotionless most of the time, putting little to no effort into maintaining the conversation, reacting inappropriately at things - like his eyes softening and looking at her with interest when she described the wounds on a burn victim she treated a few days ago, then returning to an expression of boredom and - possibly - disappointment when she told him the man was alive and well.

"Anathema," he said suddenly after they'd both been quiet for a while, with an urgency to his voice. Anathema twisted in her chair, turning around from where she had been watching some hot guy's terrible dance moves.

Crowley looked… afraid?

"Jesus, what?" she asked.

Crowley looked down at his half-empty glass. _Fiddled nervously_ with it.

 _Christ, what the_ _hell_ , Anathema thought, staring at him expectantly. _What the_ _hell_ _, what the_ _hell_ _, what the_ _hell_ _did he_ do-

"That... man," he said, and his eyes darted behind Anathema, to the left.

Anathema turned in the direction of Crowley's gaze. Somehow, among all the people crowding the bar, she knew immediately who Crowley was referring to. One of the bartenders was a shorter man, dressed in white, with bright blonde hair sticking out in all directions. He looked… incredibly kind as he spoke to a customer with a gentle smile. Anathema swallowed, twisting quickly in her chair to face Crowley.

"Come on, Crowley," she said urgently, "don't do this."

It was Crowley's turn to look nervous, eyes dropping to avoid hers. Crowley only ever looked nervous when he thought he was about to disappoint Anathema in some way. She took a deep breath, feeling dizzy in her seat suddenly. _Too drunk for this, too fucking drunk to deal with-_

"He's been watching me."

"What?"

"He's been watching me all night. He's been _seeing_ me," Crowley said, voice uncharacteristically fast and hushed.

"What the fuck does _that_ mean?"

"He's been seeing _me_!" he practically whisper-screamed at her, leaning so far over the table their faces nearly bumped.

Anathema reared back, breathing heavy. "You need to calm the fuck down and start making some sense! Jesus fucking _christ_!" Crowley's face was still showing an alarming amount of emotion. Anathema had no idea _what_ that emotion was, exactly.

Crowley leaned back finally, deflating. He did this sort of thing often – he felt something strongly and expressed it, and then it wouldn't be long before he was back to his usual self and he'd have this cold, slightly perplexed look on his face, like he couldn't quite understand why he reacted the way he had.

"I think he can tell I'm… that there's something wrong about me."

Anathema stared at him in disbelief. "Are you shitting me? You're a handsome man in a _gay bar_ , a cute, probably _bored_ guy is looking at you, and you think he's, what, an angel of the Lord that's been sent down to expose the Spawn of Satan to the world?"

Crowley observed Anathema's outburst with a neutral face. "Think I'm the spawn of Satan, do you?" he asked, maybe teasing, maybe serious.

"Christ, I thought this was- I thought you wanted to- look, let's just leave, alright? Just ignore him, what does it even matter if he " _saw you"_?" Anathema said, mocking with air-quotes. 

As Anathema started to stand, Crowley grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down. "I don't want to leave," Crowley said quickly, meaningfully. 

"Wha-" Anathema started to say, stopping with her mouth open. _Oh_.

"Okay, we're leaving, right now," Anathema suddenly said with faked confidence, though Crowley might have been able to hear the pounding of her heart even over the loud music. She took Crowley's arm and tried to pull him upright. Crowley let her.

"I don't want to ignore him," he said, more urgently, as though he thought Anathema didn't understand the gravity of the situation. "I-"

" _God_ , I know, alright, I get it! That's why we're leaving, _right now_!"

But Crowley didn't bulge, and even _dared_ to look away from Anathema and in the direction of the man. Anathema felt her blood boil and run cold at the same time, and she squeezed Crowley's arm as hard as she could, allowing herself to feel a small satisfaction as Crowley winced.

"You know, I'm well aware just how _selective_ that memory of yours can be, but surely you still remember _the hotel room_ , don't you?" speaking slowly and clearly, anger apparent in her voice.

Crowley's eyes darkened. "Yes," he said after several beats.

"Yes. Yes, so do I. I also distinctly remember our agreement that we'd never bring that up again. That I _wouldn't have to_."

Anathema's hold on his arm was still painfully tight, but she had to keep Crowley here, in the real world, not in the endless, black fucking void that was his mind. All the while she struggled to do the same, and not let her thoughts wander to the details of… that night. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing deeply and counting to three before opening them and looking at Crowley.

"Yes," Crowley repeated, ' _sorry_ _'_ , she could see forming on his lips, but it never came.

"Excuse me," came a voice behind Anathema, and Crowley's face attempted and failed to put on his fake smile. Anathema turned.

"Your friends ordered this for you,« the man said, holding a bottle, his voice loud to overpower the music, but soft. »And they said to t-tell you to- er," he fiddled with a piece of paper with his free hand, "to 'calm the fuck down and party'."

He looked up at Anathema, then, slowly and reluctantly, at Crowley.

 _Crowley was right_ , Anathema thought as she watched the reluctant and fearful expression on the man's face, _he does see him_.


	3. Willing Participant

The man left quickly after that, and the pair of them decided to return the gift to their friends and leave. Well, Anathema decided while Crowley stood there motionless, watching the bartender.

"Wait for me here, _got it_?" Anathema said firmly before making her way through the crowd to where their group of friends was. When she returned and saw that Crowley was gone, she immediately looked over to the counter - and there he was, facing the apprehensive bartender. Anathema cursed as she ran over, clasping her friend's shoulder.

"There you are!" she exclaimed cheerily, before turning to Crowley and harshly whispering " _what the fuck are you doing?_ "

"Paying the bill," Crowley said casually without taking his eyes off the man. Looking at him like he was... prey, or something. As a young woman, Anathema knew that look well, but it was something else with Crowley. She was glad it wasn't her who was on the receiving end of it. She tightened her grip on Crowley's shoulder, and turned to the bartender.

"We good?" she asked with what she hoped was a pleasant smile.

"Well, I was just telling your- your friend here that I can't possibly accept such a, er, generous tip."

She could tell he was extremely uncomfortable. He avoided Crowley's gaze but was aware Crowley was staring at him.

" _Please_ accept it."

Both Anathema and the man turned to Crowley. None of them spoke for a few moments.

"Why?" the man asked, with genuine curiosity.

Anathema cringed inwardly. _Why_? Because he wants to own you, to control you. Or for you to feel _indebted_ to him.

Crowley looked... nervous suddenly. For the first time, he looked away from the man. "Because I-" he started, hesitating for a moment before his - possibly faked - confidence was back. He looked up at the bartender. "Because I want to lay in bed tonight thinking about you spending my money. Knowing you'll be thinking of me."

The bartender stared at him with his mouth open, processing what had just come out of this strange customer's mouth. "E-Excuse me?" he said finally, with a surprising amount of force. "Y-You can't just-"

Crowley interrupted him. "I know you need it. Why are you refusing it?" he asked, looking at him intensely.

"You- you know what, you can go to hell! You- you get off on humiliating people, do you? I knew there was something off about you the moment I saw you!" he spat at him loudly enough that people in close proximity looked to see what was happening.

"I know you did," Crowley said simply, and they both just... stared into each other's eyes for what to Anathema seemed an unreasonable amount of time. She coughed loudly, and the blonde man looked at her, dazed.

"You two should leave," he said, his eyes moving back to Crowley's slowly, and he held his gaze for a few seconds before carefully extending his arm out to grab the cash that was laid out between him and Crowley. He swallowed self-consciously, then looked at Anathema and said "Please do leave," before turning on his heels and exiting through a door at the back of the bar. 

When Crowley finally looked back at her, Anathema gave him a murderous look before dragging him out of the bar and calling them a taxi.

1 week later  


Crowley did in fact lay in bed that night, thinking of him. And all the nights after that.

Not even Anathema's lengthy monologues could create a sense of guilt strong enough to stop him from doing that. Not even when she talked - well, screamed - about the blasted night at the hotel. Not one of Crowley's proudest moments, the... incident that occurred there, but the real reason he regretted it so much was because Anathema more or less stopped believing in him then. He knew that the moment she'd entered the room that night - knew everything would change. Crowley had... crossed a line. And he could never uncross it. Anathema would never forget it.

Still he couldn't stop himself. He'd memorized the man perfectly - he was burned into his retinas, and in his mind, Crowley could manipulate the image to do... well, anything. Anything that crossed his mind. Anything that interested him, fascinated him.

He imagined what pets the man had when he was younger and how he cried when they died. He imagined water dripping off his soft, shivering body as he stood naked and barefoot in the snow outside Crowley's cottage. He imagined his kind face contorting with pain as Crowley pulled a piece of broken glass from his soft foot, imagined him smiling at Crowley warmly as the taller man tended to the wound. He imagined pressing his finger into the cut and spreading the blood over his own penis.

Anathema always insisted that Crowley be truthful, and he was. He disappointed Anathema, _constantly_ , but he answered her questions truthfully. Anathema had grown used to hearing Crowley's thoughts over the years, and Crowley had grown used to sharing them. It was difficult in the beginning because Anathema's reactions were often... well, hurtful. Crowley told her as much on several occasions, but Anathema said that it was a good thing. That it was progress. The last time Anathema had said that to him, Crowley pointed out that hurting others as a means of making them progress towards some goal he desired is something that Anathema scolds him for even _thinking_ of, and Anathema waved her hand at him dismissively, saying _that's not the same_ _damn_ _thing and you know it,_ but she never referred to Crowley's experiences of sadness as progress again.

Every morning since the night at the bar, Anathema would have Crowley describe all the thoughts he had the previous day concerning the man.

This was a game they'd played a few times before and Crowley would go along with it like a good little dog and tell her everything, wondering why Anathema did this to herself. Made herself listen to Crowley's abnormal, often violent thoughts. Crowley always felt a rush when he shared something he knew Anathema would find _particularly_ revolting and shocking - adrenaline shooting through his body as he waited for her response, knowing it could be the last time they ever speak. Knowing that some day, he's going to say something so disgusting, so abhorrent, so... _unforgivably wrong_ \- Anathema will no longer be able to pretend redemption was possible for him. It made him feel alive. It made him _feel_ \- that was progress, right?

When they sat at breakfast the next morning - a full week after meeting the man - Anathema gave him an expectant look and Crowley began to describe robotically what he remembered from yesterday's fantasies. Anathema's cereal bowl was left abandoned half-eaten by the time Crowley was done, and she had a distant look in her eye. After a full minute of silence, she picked up her pack of cigarettes and took one out, her movements slow. She raised the unlit cigarette to her lips and held it there for a few quiet moments.

"Do you-" she tried, and stopped, frowning in thought before trying again. "Do you think you would do any of those things if no one ever found out?"

"You mean if _you_ never found out?" Crowley asked.

"No, I mean like, the police."

"Why would the police care about any of that?"

"You- I mean he'd-" Anathema spluttered, "he'd press charges."

Crowley gave her a strange look. "Well, that's only if he was an unwilling participant."

Anathema raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, so you- I mean in your fantasies, he's a- a _willing_ participant?" she asked, sounding hopeful.

Crowley considered the question. Was he? He wasn't sure. In his mind, it was... walking a line. Always pushing him to do a bit more than he was comfortable doing. There was always a little fear on the man's face in his mind, always looking unsure as Crowley made him do... things, yet he always did them. It gave Crowley pleasure to see him do that. He told Anathema so.

"And what happens when he _doesn't_ do what you want him to do?"

"That never happens."

"Yeah, in your _head_ it doesn't," Anathema said, and Crowley had the feeling he did something wrong again. He could tell Anathema hadn't been getting much sleep the past few days. She was angry and worried, because Crowley wasn't forgetting him.

"What happens when this obsession of yours grows out of control? When your thoughts aren't enough? You're going to seek him out and he's not going to be this person you've created in your head. And you- you won't be able to handle that."

"It won't come to that."

Anathema exhaled loudly and leaned back in her chair. "We just- we keep talking, okay? Even if it comes to that, even if you do something, you _tell_ me."

"So you can blame yourself and I go to prison to rot?"

Anathema gave him a look of disbelief before charging forward in her chair, finger pointed angrily at his face. " _Yes_ , so you can rot in prison! That's what's going to happen to you if you don't start using your goddamn head! If you intentionally hurt someone, Crowley, they lock you away. Do you think that's _unfair_?"

"No," Crowley replied automatically, too quickly. He knew it was what Anathema wanted to hear.

"Is that the truth?" Anathema asked.

After a few moments, Crowley nodded. They didn't talk about it again until the next morning.


	4. The First Envelope

2 weeks later  


Last night had been the first night in two long, long weeks that Aziraphale finally slept through without a nightmare.

The red-haired man, his face, his… his _eyes,_ those otherworldly amber eyes had been haunting him. It was a complete and utter _overreaction_ on Aziraphale's part - what happened wasn't worth _two weeks of nightmares_ , for heaven's sake. He knew that. But there was… something about that man. Something inside him that was... all wrong. Aziraphale trusted his instincts enough not to doubt that.

He had been working most nights since the incident, and he was constantly on edge, only forgetting to worry when the place got very busy. He would scan the room dozens of times an hour, heart speeding up every time he saw red hair, or red-ish hair, or a tall man in dark clothes, or a tall-ish man in dark-ish clothes.

His co-workers noticed his strange behaviour very early – he always had been a _terrible_ liar – but they didn't press when they saw how reluctant he was to talk about it. After all, what was he supposed to say? That a tall and handsome man gave him the biggest tip of his life and essentially told Aziraphale that- that he would- well, _lay in bed and think of him_? Aziraphale felt his cheeks burn as he remembered. If he told his friends or co-workers, they'd surely laugh at him and his embarrassing nightmares – dreaming of the man returning to snatch him up, like he was some- some sort of irresistible, beautiful young thing. And if he tried to describe _why_ that man unnerved him so much, he'd sound like a crazy person. After all, _he_ had been the one to stare at the redhead all night before their… interaction. If anything, _Aziraphale_ was the creep! 

His mind was going a hundred miles per hour as he polished the glasses. It was a slow night, near closing, and he was the only one left to tend the bar. And in that moment – possibly one of the very few moments in the last two weeks that Aziraphale _hadn't_ been expecting it – he heard a chair move against the floor near him and looked up to see – him. Standing in the same spot he had last time, but looking at him much more intensely. Unguarded and focusing all of his attention on him. Aziraphale nearly dropped the glass, catching it just as it was starting to fall, and by the time he looked back up again, the man was sitting in the chair. Aziraphale could tell by the way the man was looking at him that… that he most likely did what he said he would do. _Laid in bed and thought of him_. His stomach twisted.

"Come with me," the man said suddenly. The music wasn't as loud tonight and Aziraphale could hear him from where he stood.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. He couldn't believe that was the first thing out of this absurd man's mouth. Outrageous! "Where?" he asked, regretting it when the man raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise, look turned hopeful.

"I have a cottage nearby," he replied and continued to _stare_ , and Aziraphale laughed nervously. Good lord, was he being serious?

"Has this ever worked for you before?" he asked, sounding a little angry, and for a moment the man looked confused, frowning.

"I've never invited anyone there before," he said by way of explanation.

"I don't even-" Aziraphale started, pausing as he noticed how shaky his voice was. He took a breath, licking his lips self-consciously as the man continued to stare at him, "erm... know your name," he finished pathetically. Then, with sudden confidence, "And besides, you can't possibly expect me to go to a- a _cottage_ with a complete stranger. You're supposed to invite me for tea, or- or coffee, or something."

The man seemed to consider this. "I- no, we have to be alone."

Aziraphale gaped at him. "Wow, you are one terrible serial killer, my dear. You should take some lessons," Aziraphale said and looked away quickly, blinking at his own sass, then hurriedly making his way to the other end of the bar to serve another customer that had thankfully just walked up. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat. Much to his dismay, the slim man was still there when Aziraphale looked over, and when they made eye-contact, the man abruptly stood up and started to make his way over - slowly, maybe trying not to frighten Aziraphale but failing miserably. Aziraphale wanted to bolt, but it was like his feet had made roots.

"Look, I-I'm the only bartender left but the bouncer's in the back, and he's gonna be here until everyone leaves," he said, only looking at the tall man as he said the last two words.

"I'm not a serial killer," the man said seriously, and Aziraphale cringed, looking away uncomfortable. _Who says that so_ seriously _? It was supposed to be a_ joke _. "_ My name's Crowley."

Before Aziraphale could respond, Crowley's fingers were suddenly wrapped around his wrist, holding tightly. "I know what I- what I seem like, but I just like you. I want to look at you, and for you to look at me. That's not- it's not wrong."

Just like that first night, Aziraphale felt hypnotized by the intense amber stare and the sheer terror of having his wrist trapped in the man's strong grip. This wasn't- this wasn't okay. He was _right_ to be afraid. 

The man must have noticed this, his voice suddenly sweet and syrupy and reassuring as he said "I've never hurt anyone," with a warm look in his eyes. It sounded… wrong, terribly wrong, but before Aziraphale had time to react, the man frowned and pressed his lips together, the kind look wiped off his features. "No, I- that's a lie. I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Aziraphale wondered whether that was some sort of threat. Aziraphale started to pull his hand from the man's grip, and for one short, terrifying moment, Crowley held on, tightening the hold before releasing. Aziraphale took a step back, swallowing thickly, vaguely considering screaming the bouncer's name and running in that direction. God, why _didn't_ he? Why was he… _intentionally_ playing with fire?

"You must've known I wouldn't just go off alone with you," Aziraphale said, and he sounded apologetic. Classic Aziraphale - mindful not to hurt anyone's feelings, even when speaking to a serial killer who was apparently threatening to take him to some cottage in the middle of nowhere. Always go along with everything just to avoid making a fuss.

The redhead seemed to remember something then, reaching inside his long coat. He pulled out a white envelope that was bulging slightly from the contents inside. When Aziraphale didn't move, Crowley pushed the envelope, sliding it across the counter.

There was… more money in there than Aziraphale would make working 12-hour shifts for a year. He slammed it back down on the bar, uncharacteristically hard, and took a step back. He could feel himself starting to shake.

"God, you're- you-" he took another step back and leaned against the counter behind him. A full minute must have passed before he was breathing normally again. He reached for the envelope, checking the contents again. When he looked back at Crowley, it looked like the man was possibly smiling.

"What- what are you giving me this for?" he managed.

"To come with me," the tall man said simply.

"Then what?"

"I'll give you one of those every time you do what I ask."

 _God, what a bastard,_ Aziraphale thought _, rich_ _damn_ basta _-_

"I won't touch you unless you want me to," Crowley then said quickly, as if he'd just remembered to mention it.

"And why would I ever want you to touch me?" he asked, feeling brave. Crowley grimaced slightly at that, reaching into his pockets again with a small sigh, pulling out a larger, thicker brown envelope, and he threw it at him. Aziraphale caught it, dropping the smaller one in the process. He fiddled with the new envelope, his heart speeding up.

There was too much money in there to count. He felt high when Crowley told him the number, swaying a little on his feet.

"I'm not a fool," Aziraphale finally said, carefully placing the closed envelope on the counter. "I- I'm not getting in a car with you."

Crowley looked disappointed, but nodded, then gestured at Aziraphale's feet. "Pick that up, will you," he said casually, and Aziraphale realized he was talking about the smaller envelope Aziraphale had accidentally dropped earlier. He felt his face heat up as he wondered whether the man thought Aziraphale was trying to steal it, that he was hoping Crowley had forgotten about it. He picked it up quickly and handed it to Crowley, careful not to let their fingers brush. The man smiled at him then, more pronounced than before, as he pulled a pen out of his other pocket and started writing on the white envelope. When he was done, he put his pen away neatly, and pushed the envelope back.

"That's the address. I'm staying there for the next four days." With that, he stood up, gave Aziraphale one last look and turned to leave. Aziraphale struggled to find his voice.

"Wait, why- why are you giving me the- this?" he called when the man was halfway to the exit, mentally scolding himself when Crowley stopped and turned around.

But he just gave Aziraphale another small smile and said, "'cause you picked it up, like I told you to."


	5. Love Is the Candy and Cake at the Top of the Pyramid

4 days later  


Crowley poured the boiling water into his cup as he tried to perfectly reconstruct the man's eyes in his mind. The softness of those blue orbs and the lines surrounding them were _surely_ proof that the angel must have only ever looked at anyone or any _thing_ with nothing but _kindness_ – his face perpetually caught in that sweet, gentle look of affection mixed with worry – which happened to be just about the only explanation Crowley could think of for why his angel looked at him the way he did. Even after catching glimpses of Crowley's ugly soul, there was always kindness there, even for a thing like him.

When he was satisfied with the image of the man's eyes, he closed his own eyes for a moment to better imagine what Aziraphale's face might look like if Crowley were to, for one reason or another, slowly press a long knife through the man's soft belly.

"No," Crowley said out loud at that. _No_ , he realized, _no no no I don't like that_. He felt something akin to relief. Picking up his tea, he made his way to the area by the fire and sat down on a large, comfortable black couch.

He wondered briefly how much the luxurious couch had cost, then thought that in any case, the money would have been better spent shoved into an enveloped and offered to Aziraphale in return for him kneeling on the floor, knees tucked together, neatly resting on the soft white carpet, while Crowley stood with his back against the fire, facing Aziraphale - who would undoubtedly squirm awkwardly under his gaze.

It _could_ have been an innocent thought – Aziraphale would rest _comfortably_ on the soft carpet, decent, dressed and _unharmed_ , warm from the fire – except there was definitely fear in the blue eyes Crowley was imagining, and the figure on the floor was definitely avoiding Crowley's gaze and eyeing the exit. Crowley wasn't entirely sure whether that was what his mind _wanted_ to happen, or what it assumed _would_ happen – an important distinction - but when he imagined the apprehension on the blonde man's soft face, Crowley's (real world) hand moved on its own accord, snaking between his legs, and he let out a long breath. He cupped himself through the pants experimentally, then let his long fingers rest there limply. He… didn't do this very often.

And then, inevitably, he heard the cries of a horse – _the_ horse – and the hand on his cock tightened slightly as he imagined squeezing the already bloody whip in his mind. He imagined raising it, then slamming it down, and it landed on his angel's soft skin, shaking his whole body. The flesh tore along a long line where the whip had landed.

Crowley was pulled back into reality by a loud knock on the door. He jumped to his feet and stood frozen for a second or two, feeling a rush – it was panic. He made his way to the door hurriedly, taking a deep breath and unlocking the door with forced calmness.

Before he had the chance to grab the handle, the door swung open with force, hitting him in the face. When he recovered from the sharp pain, he looked up to see Anathema's wide eyes scanning him wildly before landing on his face. Regret at hurting her friend disappeared from her face as abruptly as it had appeared, and she angrily pushed past him to begin frantically searching the place - opening closets and large cupboards and slamming them shut, then dropping to her knees and crawling around to look under the couch and other furniture.

He stood there silently as he listened to the same angry sounds coming from the rest of the rooms in the cottage. _'She was being thorough_ ', Crowley thought, and felt the familiar rush. It was accompanied by a painful twist low in his stomach, threatening to send bile running up and into his mouth. Fear, definitely.

 _Don't lie to her_ , he said to himself sternly, _don't lie, she always gets to the truth, don't be an idiot, the worst thing you can do is lie to h-'_

"Start talking."

* * *

To both Anathema and Crowley's absolute disbelief, Crowley cried that evening.

It was after four hours of intense conversation and arguing that followed Crowley's description of the night four days ago, and Anathema screamed and threw things at him and finally ended up holding his head in her lap and gently stroking his hair as she quietly described all the times Crowley had done good, all the times he helped a friend without expecting anything in return or was kind to a stranger without alternative motives.

Of course some of the examples she gave did not belong on that list – meaning he had managed to fool her, as well. Meaning she didn't know him, not really.

His mind went abruptly from thinking ' _I can be good, if she says I can be good, then I can be good, I can be good-_ ' to _'how can she know that if she doesn't even_ know _me, I know me and I think I_ can't _be good, I can't be good,_ of course _I can't be good-'_

That's when he started crying, not even gracefully, but with sobs and _hiccups_ and large wet patches on Anathema's jeans. Crowley thought it wasn't nearly as bad as his body was making it out to be – there must even be _normal_ people out there who have never wept this pathetically in their entire lives.

"I love him," were the first words spoken since he had begun crying to after he was breathing normally again.

"What am I even supposed to say to that, Crowley?"

"That it's progress? A huge leap, in fact? The _holy grail_ , even?" he said, a little angrily, the tears apparently clearing up whatever little pathways led to the part of his brain that made _feelings_. "That I, it's- that it's _good_."

"Crowley, _love_ is the candy and cake at the top of the pyramid, and you're yet to make it to the fruits and veggies level. Your diet more or less consists of _dry bread_."

Crowley's head shook in Anathema's lap - she was apparently gesturing wildly as she spoke. He pulled himself up and watched as she continued seriously.

"You get what I'm saying, right? Now, until you've spread some hummus on your bread, and made yourself a nice salad, and drank your goddamn smoothie, you can't have the candy. It's just… not how it works. There are no _leaps_."

"Right. So I don't-" Crowley gestured vaguely, feeling less comfortable talking about this now that he was facing her.

"Love him," she finished for him gently, her anger and frustration diminished. "How _can_ you, Crowley? You don't even know him." _Right, yeah, technically true_ , Crowley thought. "And _he_ doesn't know _you_ ," she added, looking away. Crowley swallowed.

"Right." _He doesn't know you, doesn't know how not good you are, not_ really _. He wouldn't be like Anathema, he wouldn't listen to your thoughts and_ stay. Anathema was broken in her own way but his angel? He was perfect, and could never stay near such an abomination. Crowley... knew that to be a fact. Not even despicable amounts of money would persuade him.

"Now that I think of it, that might have come off like I was trying to say you're unlovable, or something like that. Just in case that crossed your mind just now. I didn't mean that, of course. You are very lovable and you're loved by me, and I'm sure you will be loved by many more in the future."

The sheer impossibility of Crowley crying _twice_ in one night stopped it from happening. For a moment he wondered whether he should tell Anathema to leave, that maybe he was on the verge of a mental breakdown, and who knows what awful thing someone like _him_ turns into when that happens. " _Really_ , Anathema? _'Very lovable'_?" he scoffed instead, rolling his eyes and turning to sit facing forward towards the fire. "Not a word I'd use. Not a word _anyone_ would use."

"Oh? Because I _just_ used it."

"Right, in an attempt to back-paddle after _first_ saying I'm _un_ lovable."

"So you _were_ thinking that! Why didn't you say anything?"

"Say anyt- say _what_? 'Excuse me, terribly sorry, I think you've just implied that I was _incapable of being loved_? Would you mind _confirming_ that, just so there's _no doubt_ that Crowley is an unlova-"

The little air that was left in his lungs was squeezed out of him when his friend's arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. He shut his eyes automatically like he always did when Anathema hugged him, concentrating on the rush, the physical and emotional sensations of being held by her. Crowley had learned many new shades and colors of emotion through Anathema's hugs – sometimes it felt like her intense feelings somehow managed to seep through her and into him. Now, he was feeling her protectiveness.

" _I_ love you, and therefore you are capable of being loved. Don't argue against logic," she murmured into his hair after he curled in on himself a little, resting his head in the crook of her neck, his own neck supported by the curve of her soft breasts.

"You don't know me at all," he spoke out loud without meaning to, and the even rising and falling of Anathema's chest skipped a few beats.

"What are you thinking right now?" she asked.

"College," he replied immediately, like her trained little dog, and waited for her breathing to stop completely like he knew it would. "How her breasts were soft, like yours," he finished and waited, feeling numb like he always did when he told her these truths.

He could feel her touch on him becoming lighter, like she was fighting against the repulsion she suddenly felt. Crowley never understood how she – most of the time – managed to keep her concern for him alive during moments like this, where he revealed another rotten layer of himself to her. Crowley decided to spare her the pain and began to pull away from her embrace. For a moment she let it happen, but then her palm spread wide on the back of his head and she pulled him back into the hug, pressing his cheek against the soft sweater that covered her even softer breasts.

It wasn't… sexual, never anything like that. It was safety for Crowley, blissful safety in the warm, soft body that accepted him. She was running her fingers through his hair softly and playfully, like saying 'see? Still love you. Told ya.' Crowley wished she had said it out loud instead, but her gentle touch was enough to convey the meaning and it was much more than he deserved in the first place. He allowed himself to imagine his angel saying those words and pressing Crowley's face against his soft body.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang coming from under them, under the couch, followed by another, and another - then muffled cries.


	6. Like a Diamond or Something

"I had to."

Anathema was on her feet before the words were even out of his mouth, and she began pushing at the couch, struggling to move the massive thing even after Crowley jumped off and moved away on shaky legs.

He started speaking again, his tone now so obviously deceptive, his words obviously lies. He knew that would just anger her further but he couldn't stop himself. "I had to, you don't understand, I _had_ to do this, I wasn't- I didn't plan it, I- and I wasn't going to hurt him, I would never hurt-,"

Crowley had moved behind her during his babbling, and when he went to lay his hand on her shoulder, she twisted and took a few steps back. She shoved her hand into her purse without taking her eyes off him, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He opened his mouth again to protest but the look on her face stopped him dead in his tracks, making his shoulders slump and the rush recede. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground while Anathema guided him wordlessly to the bedroom, handcuffing him securely to the bed post.

* * *

Anathema had not previously been aware of the existence of the small, dark room underneath the couch. The fact that it appeared to be spotless indicated Crowley most likely _was_ planning this.

She located the blonde bartender in the corner of a small bed on the opposite side of the room, his back against the wall, and he was holding a large cup rather aggressively. He must have used it to hit against the ceiling - why hadn't Crowley made the room soundproof? She assured the man that it was safe to come out and helped him up the steep stairs. He didn't trust her, that was obvious, but was eager to leave the small room. 

"How are you feeling, are you hurt?"

"Where is he?" is all he said in response.

She told him that Crowley was here, in the cottage, but that he couldn't get to them so he needn't worry, and she reminded Aziraphale that he was free to leave whenever he wanted, or maybe she could drive him to-

He interrupted her by asking if he could make some tea. She offered to do it but he seemed adamant.

So Anathema sat at the table while he waited for the water to boil, afraid to ask him about what had happened. He didn't seem eager to talk, but maybe it was just that he didn't trust her. She was, after all, Crowley's friend. ' _His goddamn_ enabler', she thought to herself.

When she finally did ask him a few questions after a short while, the man tried to assure her (rather unconvincingly) that he was completely fine, physically and otherwise, and skillfully avoided giving any definitive answers to her other questions. He did seem okay, but he kept fidgeting in his seat next to her, tapping the cup with his finger nervously.

"I think I- er, well, I did make three cups, you see," he said finally, pointing quickly at the third cup on the kitchen counter. Anathema hadn't noticed it before. She frowned at the cup, then at the man. "For... Crowley?" the man said, unsure.

"You…" Anathema started, her mind trying to come up with _any_ possible and probable explanation as to why he would do that, and finally settled on just repeating the facts. "You made a third cup… for Crowley?"

The man nodded, avoiding her eyes, then asked her to tell him where Crowley was so he could bring the tea to him. _'Before it got cold'_ he added by way of explanation, as if that cleared everything up.

"Absolutely not," she said, "you're not going anywhere _near_ him."

The man looked shocked for a moment, then angry as he told her she had absolutely no right to tell him what he could or couldn't do. This wasn't _her_ cottage, after all, it was Crowley's, and Crowley had invited him in.

Anathema just stared. Crowley couldn't possibly be this good of a manipulator, could he? He couldn't have brainwashed this poor bastard in less than _four days_.

"Okay, I don't know what the hell is going on here, maybe you have some sort of fetish or- or just a death wish, I'm really starting to not give a damn, but let me tell you something. That- that fucking monster in there is _my best friend_ , and if he _kills you_ , or does _any_ of the shit he's been fantasizing about – and I _assure_ you -," she stopped only to poke his chest with her finger and narrow her eyes, " - even the darkest, filthiest little thoughts you sometimes jerk off to don't compare to Crowley's _tamest_ , most _innocent_ fucking fantasy," she took an angry breath, »but if he _acts_ on any of them, then I lose my best fucking friend, and I'm not gonna let that happen."

Aziraphale stared at her through the rant, his own cup now cold in his hands, but soon his look turned determined and he stood up, grabbed the third cup of now undrinkable tea and set out in the direction Anathema had pointed at during her rant. He was halfway across the room before Anathema reacted, only managing a confused ' _hey!_ ', and the man did stop, turning around abruptly and spilling some of the tea in the process.

"You know, you say he is your best friend but then you call him a- a-", he glanced quickly over his shoulder, then back at Anathema, "a _monster_ ," he finished with a quiet but angry whisper so Crowley wouldn't hear it from the other room.

Then he turned around before she could reply and walked quickly into the other room - the door had been open so it was clear that Crowley must have heard the conversation. The redhead looked up from where he was sitting with his back against the bed, handcuffed to the post. They stared at each other for a few long moments, both with blank expressions. Crowley was the first to look away.

"I, er… brought tea."

* * *

Previous day

Aziraphale only came to the cottage to tell the conceited man that he _wasn't_ interested – he was actually doing just _fine_ financially, excuse you, and okay, yes, perhaps working at a bar wasn't his dream job, but neither was fulfilling some arrogant, rich man's fantasies of- well, of making others pick things up off the floor, for example. Aziraphale wasn't sure what else Crowley expected from him, but whatever it was, it surely wasn't anything Aziraphale would be interested in doing, thank you very much, not ever, and he told Crowley as much before holding out the envelope from the bar inches from Crowley's face. Aziraphale had a determined look on his face, his lips pressed together tightly and chin raised proudly in an attempt to look like a person who is well above accepting bribery, charity, or whatever in God's name _this_ was.

When Crowley only stood there motionless, Aziraphale dropped the envelope on the floor angrily and turned to leave. Crowley finally moved then, his hand darting out to grab Aziraphale's wrist.

"Please, will you wait? Just one moment, let me get something, will you wait? Please," Crowley begged just desperately enough to make Aziraphale's determination waver, especially since the begging was backed by the grip on his wrist that Aziraphale thinks might have made him vomit from sheer panic if Crowley had kept holding on. But he let go, and nearly ran inside the cottage, yelling out a few 'just a second', 'almost got it' and 'are you still there?'s before walking back slightly out of breath and failing to hide the relief on his face when he saw the bartender hadn't moved an inch.

He came to stand before Aziraphale, a little closer than they were before, his fingers shaking on the large paper bag he was holding. Crowley's breathing didn't seem to be slowing down as he eyed Aziraphale with an unsure look.

"You're right, you were totally right, that was- it was rude of me, of course, so rude, to offer you that kind of money to, er… that is to say, I… well, you're worth more, so much more. You're... _rare_ , you know, precious, like a – a diamond or something," Crowley cringed at his own nervous rambling, squeezing the paper bag in an attempt to still his trembling fingers. "Don't make me let you go, angel, not yet, please."

Crowley interpreted Aziraphale's lack of response as 'so far so good, go on then' when really Aziraphale was just unable to speak due to his screaming internal monologue consisting of 'this is the worst decision of my life', 'they'll never find my body,' and 'he probably owns an incinerator', with the occasional 'if his touch didn't make the sharpest fear I've ever felt run through me, I would possibly want to hold him and maybe tell him something kind and gentle, like _it's alright, dear_ or _everything's going to be okay_ '. But, alas, it did, and for good reason, probably.

"Okay, so I – " Crowley opened up the paper bag and stared down into it nervously. "It's just – just _one_ request, and I won't – er, I wouldn't touch you, of course."

He looked back up at Aziraphale quickly then. "Don't be... offended. Please. It's – here, take it," he finished, handing the bag to Aziraphale.

"That's – well, er, there's a bunch of money in there, that's all I have here at the cottage I'm afraid, but there's also a check for 1 million pounds."

Crowley's eyes were scanning frantically for a reaction, but Aziraphale felt even less able to speak than before, and his face was equally unresponsive. So Crowley went on.

"It's all, you know, perfectly clean, decent, hard-earned money. Well, perhaps not hard-earned, no one's worked hard in this family since my great grandfather, but, er… I mean to say, it's okay to accept it. You're not- you wouldn't be doing anything _wrong_. And _we_ wouldn't be doing anything wrong. It's like… oh, it's just a dare, sort of, isn't it? And if you win, you get a large sum of money from a rich sod. Totally… harmless. Harmless fun."

Crowley was still nervous, still rambling, but his voice had started to go a little sultry and sweet, and he moved so slowly and gracefully while he spoke, Aziraphale had hardly noticed, and by the time he finished talking he was standing so close Aziraphale could hear his breathing.

"I won't touch you. I'll just…" Crowley exhaled a little shakily, "Watch you. Just- just let me, angel, please, let me."

Aziraphale looked away, the skin on his wrist where Crowley had grabbed him earlier was tingling, as if expecting the contact again. Incredibly, Crowley really did move his hand then, raising it to loom just above Aziraphale's wrist – as if to demonstrate that he can control himself. Aziraphale could hear his own heartbeat loud as a drum and felt his stomach convulsing like it wanted to empty itself. Crowley was leaning down so close now that Aziraphale could feel the warmth of his exhales at the top of his skull.

" _Please_ , angel."

Finally, Aziraphale spoke.

"Watch me do what?" he asked, moving his head back from under Crowley's before looking up. He sounded almost calm and not at all like he was about to collapse.

Crowley's eyes widened, his lips parting silently, and he watched Aziraphale like that for a few moments, his fingers lingering so close to Aziraphale's skin he could feel the fingertips touching the small hairs on his wrist. Crowley looked lost in thought, his eyes glazed over, and he closed them shut as he took a deep breath.

"Watch you stand - _there_ ," Crowley said, opening his eyes and pointing at a spot a few feet behind Aziraphale – there was nothing but a good couple of inches of snow there.

"Without..." The bag filled with cash that Crowley was holding in his other hand pressed against Aziraphale's hip then, and he jumped, taking a step back and snapping Crowley out of his trance.

Crowley's eyes now looked alert. "Ah, that- that was an accident," he said hurriedly, "I didn't-"

Aziraphale interrupted him. "Without... my clothes?" Crowley's mouth snapped shut, and he nodded.

Aziraphale turned to look at the spot Crowley had pointed at. It was snowing, he noticed, and the imagine of the countless snowflakes melting on his own naked body flashed through his mind. His heart was beating out of his chest. _No. No no no, absolutely not_ , he thought to himself, but then remembered the obscene amount of money that was in that bag, and all the good he could do with it. He'd take a little for himself, of course, but... Who needs a _million_ pounds, for heaven's sake! No, he would give it away - let it do some good instead of sitting here in this man's cottage - gathering dust, or something!

That line of thought made Aziraphale gain a little confidence. He suddenly felt like this was a sacrifice for the greater good, an opportunity no good man would turn down, and ignored any thoughts about how desperate the man looked, how much Aziraphale doing this would mean to him, and how much Aziraphale _didn't_ want to deny him that. He was willing to give Aziraphale a million bloody pounds just to look at him. _Him_! It was... a level of flattery Aziraphale didn't know he needed. Nor did he dislike this type of intense attention focused on him quite as much as he would have expected. It was all rather... intoxicating.

"For how long?" he asked, not sounding nearly as confident as he supposedly felt. 

Crowley was silent for a few beats, then only said "I won't let anything happen to you."

Aziraphale thought it sounded like a threat but believed him anyway.


	7. Baby It's Cold Outside

Aziraphale's determination to go through with this _insanity_ remained strong right up to the point where he found himself shivering on the porch in nothing but his underwear, socks and shoes.

He had turned away before he had begun to undress, watching the man - Crowley was his name, he'd told him - with the corner of his eye. With every piece of clothing he had removed, he could see Crowley's demeanor shift a bit more. Towards what, he wasn't sure. But still he felt brave, sure of his decision - until he was standing there in his underwear, already shaking from the sharp cold.

The thought of being naked, _completely_ naked, in front of this man, made Aziraphale's stomach turn. How did he not think of this before?

"D'you want to keep that on, then?" came Crowley's ragged voice. He must have sensed Aziraphale was beginning to lose his nerve.

Aziraphale turned to face him again, trying to cover himself with his hands as much as he could. Crowley looked fervent, ready to pounce, and Aziraphale nodded shakily, embarrassed. Crowley's mouth did... something, possibly a smile, and his slow exhale was visible in the cool air. When he took a step closer, Aziraphale felt frozen to the spot, legs heavy and numb from the cold. So he just stood there, shivering, as Crowley's fingers ghosted over his hip, his mouth still open and breath warm on Aziraphale's face.

Crowley - dressed warm and snugly in his large winter coat - was taking his time, his hands traveling up and down over Aziraphale's side, but never touching. His eyes roamed everywhere, taking in all the details of Aziraphale's body, looking at him like... like he was prey, like he was about to be hunted, played with and torn apart, yeah, he was definitely looking at him like that, but it was... it was a way no one's ever looked at Aziraphale before, and probably never will again. Like he was... a _rare, precious diamond, an angel_ , something extraordinary, something Crowley just _had_ to have, couldn't deny himself.

Aziraphale wondered for a lucid moment whether he should have demanded twice that amount of money, and when Crowley finally raised his eyes to look into his, Aziraphale had a feeling this man would've given away his entire fortune just for this.

"Will you give me something in return?" Crowley asked, voice strangely calm, but his breathing getting heavier by the second.

Aziraphale's mind worked fast, as if aware that it's reasoning abilities were deteriorating with every additional moment he spent in the unforgiving cold. What, what could he give him, what else does Crowley want? To touch him? No, no way, he would rather take it all off than give up _that_ term of their arrangement. Crowley had said he wouldn't touch him and if that changed, Aziraphale was certain he would no longer be able to contain the fear that was threatening to consume him. But maybe... maybe he could keep that sense of control while still giving Crowley what he wanted. On Aziraphale's own terms.

So he looked up into Crowley's eyes, trying to concentrate, to judge Crowley's reaction as he carefully extended his shaking arms towards him.

Crowley's eyes immediately darted down and followed the movement of Aziraphale's hands as shaking fingers reached towards Crowley's left hand, wrapping around his wrist and raising his hand carefully. Crowley just stared as Aziraphale's other hand moved down to wrap around Crowley's fingers, cradling his hand gently before raising it only inches in front of Aziraphale's face.

The angel's fingers were cold on Crowley's skin, and so were his lips when he pressed them just above his knuckles. Crowley stared wide-eyed at where the angel's mouth met his skin, so softly and gently. It lasted for a short moment but it felt like longer, much longer to Crowley, like a dream. He hadn't even noticed that Aziraphale had let go, and now he was standing a little further away than he was before, looking up at Crowley expectantly.

Crowley was silent, still recovering, and Aziraphale was the first to speak, telling Crowley he didn't think he could stand there much longer. So Crowley led the reluctant angel to the agreed spot in the snow, and Aziraphale realized with dread that the wind was much stronger there than it was on the porch. He closed his eyes and just... stood there, feeling the snowflakes gently land and melt on him, making him feel the cold more intensely. With every moment that passed, it got worse and worse. He wanted to give up, to open his eyes and run towards his clothes, but each time, with each breath he took, he told himself _just one more, you can last just one more breath_. He told himself that over and over.

"Open your eyes," he heard, in a tone that seemed to leave no room for argument, and he obeyed.

"Good," said Crowley, taking a step closer, sounding so pleased, happy. "Good, so good, angel."

Aziraphale was shaking so violently now his teeth clattered, and Crowley took another step forward.

"How does it feel?"

Aziraphale wasn't sure if the wet trails running down his face were tears or melted snow. He couldn't think anymore, his brain was all but on the verge of shutting down. How long had they been standing here?

"Angel...Tell me, tell me how it feels."

Aziraphale's mouth felt numb, swollen, as he struggled to speak. "H-H-Hurts-s," Aziraphale breathed, not recognizing his own voice.

"Angel, I want to-" Crowley started desperately, swallowing hard. "Christ, I want to _consume_ you," he breathed like he was losing his mind, feral, his hands painfully tight fists. 

_Please, please_ , Aziraphale thought, or did he say it out loud? Did he really beg? He was no longer able to distinguish his thoughts from his words. _Please, please, yes, consume me, it sounds_ warm _._

And suddenly, he felt a source of heat radiating in front of him.

He opened his eyes, wondering how long they'd been closed, and all he could see was a clean, soft-looking black fabric, and the heat coming from it warmed up Aziraphale's entire face like the sun on a hot day. Nothing in the world could stop him from burying his face in that warmth - Aziraphale had never needed anything in his life as much as he needed that right now. His face felt like an ice cube pressed against a defrosting tray, and bending his arms felt like breaking icicles in half, but he raised them as quickly as he could to snake them around the heat source. The air caught between the thick jacket and the radiating body felt boiling, burning his skin.

Aziraphale's thighs were pressed close together for warmth, and he shuffled them forward, squeezing himself in the tight space between Crowley's legs, and a hot wave washed over the top of his head when Crowley exhaled slowly through his mouth, letting out a small sound of pleasure. Aziraphale's body felt like it was on fire. Like he had jumped into a pool of acid. It was better than anything he'd ever felt.

Tears had soaked the black shirt enough for Crowley to feel the wet patch on his chest. He rested his chin on Aziraphale's head and wrapped his long arms around his weeping angel, who tried to press himself even closer. Crowley was too far gone to stop himself from squeezing him tightly against himself, crushing the air out of his lungs, and very slowly rolling his hips forward. The little friction he could feel through the thick fabric of his pants felt better than anything Crowley could remember. He closed his eyes and rolled his hips once more against the pliant body, savoring the feel of his angel's arms around him, the feeling of the cold naked skin on his back, the smell of his hair, the way his violent shaking made both their bodies vibrate, and the whine that escaped from him when Crowley finally let go to take off his jacket. With a mournful look on his face, he wrapped the jacket around his shivering angel, knowing this was the last he'll ever see of that porcelain skin.

They made their way inside the cottage, clumsily, Crowley half-carrying the stumbling man. He was about to lower Aziraphale onto the couch next to the fireplace, when he paused suddenly.

It... didn't feel safe here. What if Aziraphale tried to leave before he regained enough of his strength? He could hurt himself, or worse, he could get into a car accident and... _No_ , it wasn't safe to leave him here, Crowley decided, and Aziraphale was still too out of it to do anything but wait in the chair next to the fire while Crowley moved the large sofa and opened the hatch under it, then helped Aziraphale down the small stairs and onto a bed.

* * *

Everything smelled nice and clean and new and the pillow was softer than a cloud. It was silent in the small, dark room, so the clattering of Aziraphale's teeth seemed even louder than before. The air between Aziraphale's body, the jacket and the thick blanket Crowley had covered him with wasn't warming up fast enough, and he felt colder than he did in the snow, pressed against the welcoming heat.

"P-please," he begged, for something, anything to stop hurting, to stop the fear. He couldn't stop thinking how he might die, he might actually _die_ if he didn't warm up fast enough. He was going to freeze to death in a warm bed.

He startled when he felt the bed move and dip, and there it was again, that delicious warmth. He let out a relieved sigh as he pressed against it.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," the heat told him. Aziraphale remembered then, just for a moment, that the heat was Crowley - but then the thought was gone and all he could feel, all he wanted was the warmth. He pressed himself closer to it, and when a hand wrapped around the back of his neck tightly, pressing him down possessively, he didn't mind, it felt good. The heat wanted him close and he wanted it close.

"Do you want this? Do you want me?" it asked and Aziraphale smiled deliriously, nodded, _yes, yes, this is all I want, you're all I want, save me, keep me safe_. The hand on the back of his neck tightened, and he jerked at the sharp pain of nails suddenly digging into the side of his neck.

Crowley let out a groan, slipping his other hand under the jacket and around Aziraphale's waist, pressing against the small of his back and holding him in place as he rolled his hips forward. Letting go of his neck, Crowley traced his hand up, resting it on the angel's head for a moment before closing his fist, catching a few soft curls between his fingers and pulling lightly, making Aziraphale lift his head from the crook of Crowley's neck.

"Look at me, angel," he begged, but it was as if the man couldn't hear him. When Crowley's grip tightened and he pulled a little harder at blonde hair, the angel whined and finally met his eyes. Crowley couldn't help but roll his hips again, and again, and again before finally stopping himself, his labored breathing loud in the otherwise quiet room.

The angel's eyes stayed on him, unfocused, his head held up by Crowley's grip on his hair. He rested his forehead against Aziraphale's, their eyes so close they were out of focus.

"Fuck, angel," he breathed, sounding surprised, "Can't believe- can't believe you're letting me do this."

He slid his hand from Aziraphale's back, lower, palm spread open wide to cup Azirahale's soft cheek, then dipping his fingertips into the crease. The angel's chin was now resting on Crowley's shoulder and he was whispering, murmuring something Crowley couldn't make out. Crowley ran his fingers lightly over his angel's entrance, wanting desperately to press inside - his finger, all of his fingers, his whole hand, his whole arm. Possess him. Crowley's hand tightened in his hair again, and the angel's whispers got louder.

"Don't, don't, please," he said, while curling in slightly and pressing closer to Crowley, burying his head deeper between his shoulder and neck. "Cold, please, I'm cold, don't."

Crowley stilled, but his cock twitched at the pathetic, desperate sound of his angel's whimpers, begging while he tried to wrap himself tighter around Crowley. He kept his hand in place and only pressed a little harder with his middle finger then, just barely, and Aziraphale didn't move, didn't do anything, just kept whispering into Crowley's shoulder.

 _He'd let me_ , Crowley thought, tuning him out. _I don't have to stop_ , _he agreed, he wanted this_. He could turn him around right now and just bury himself in him, dry and too tight and the painful burn would hurt them both so good, and he'd just let him, his angel, he'd just _let_ him do it, _fuck_.

The feeling that washed over Crowley must have been happiness, he was certain, and he choked out a disbelieving laugh.

He lifted his fingers carefully, raising his hand and moving it up to rest on Aziraphale's back, over his jacket, then did the same with his other hand that had been holding Aziraphale down by the nape of his neck. He shifted his hips back, away from Aziraphale who seemed to regret the loss of contact - loss of warmth. The angel curled in on himself more, his shaking knees resting on Crowley's stomach.

He fell asleep before Crowley's breathing returned to normal, and Crowley watched him for hours before getting up and leaving, shutting the hatch securely behind him.

* * *

Crowley came three times that night.

The first time was laying on the couch, thinking about all the things he _could_ have done. After, he more or less did an imaginary coin toss in his head to decide whether he should get up and go wash his sticky hands, or move the couch and return to that room and spread it over his angel's face, his lips, his eyes.

Soon after that thought was the second time.

The third time was in the middle of the night, after waking up from a dream. An ugly dream, cruel and wrong, and he didn't feel blissful after, not like the previous two times. He felt... scared. Ashamed. Discouraged. Absolutely exhausted and overwhelmed from feeling _so much so suddenly_ , but still it took forever to fall back asleep, and all he dreamt of were violent things neither of them enjoyed.


	8. The Helpless Winged Insect

Now

They sat there a few feet apart for several long minutes, mostly in silence, only exchanging a few awkward words about cold tea. After another long pause, Aziraphale spoke, uncharacteristically going straight to the point and urging Crowley to try and explain why he had asked Aziraphale to do what he did. Crowley's internal struggle was visible on his still silent face, before he finally sighed.

"Have you ever imagined pulling a butterfly's wings off?"

Aziraphale looked shocked. "Of _course_ not!"

"Oh," Crowley replied dumbly. "Well, people do. Er, normal people, I mean. They have thoughts like that from time to time. Not you, of course, I shouldn't- shouldn't have suggested- I just meant to say, er..." he was rambling again, feeling apprehensive. Crowley took another sip of his ice cold tea, buying himself some time to consider his next words, and extending the time he had with Aziraphale, the time his angel was so generously gifting him.

"I think- well, supposedly, other people sometimes have thoughts like mine. But they also have something inside them that... makes those thoughts repulsive to them. Like thinking about pulling off an a- er, a butterfly's wings," he corrected himself, swallowing loudly. "It's not... you know, it's not automatic for me. I have to make an effort to- to feel that. Or a fraction of it, anyway."

"You don't feel anything when you think about... pulling off a butterfly's wings?" Aziraphale asked quietly, looking like it hurt him to even say that last part out loud, reminding Crowley just how much of an aberration his indifference was.

"No," Crowley replied, then winced. "Not... not immediately. I have to... remind myself what's wrong about it - about... making a butterfly suffer. And then I have to... remember _why_ that's wrong, and then, sometimes, I feel it, too. The wrongness of it."

"Of... of making someone suffer?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked down, swallowing. He nodded, not liking where the conversation seemed to be headed, but Aziraphale didn't relent.

"Wasn't I suffering?" he demanded.

"That's- you weren't _helpless_ , like some winged insect," Crowley bit out, more angrily than he'd intended. "You agreed to it, you did it willingly." Aziraphale - bless him - actually looked shocked, like he'd expected better from Crowley.

"I was barely conscious! Out there, and in that- that bed. I- I was delirious, I didn't know what I was doing!" he exclaimed accusingly.

"How was I supposed to know that?" Crowley would have crossed his arms if he could, but settled for raising his chin defiantly.

Aziraphale was speechless for a few seconds before he stood up abruptly, his tea abandoned on the floor. "You're trying to manipulate me," he stated matter-of-factly.

"How was _I_ supposed to know _you_ didn't know what _you_ were doing?" Crowley repeated patronizingly, like speaking to a child.

"Because you made me stand out there until I could barely speak! Y-you _knew_ what you were doing, you promised you wouldn't touch me and you tricked me, you-"

" _I_ didn't touch you," Crowley interrupted sharply, his loud voice accompanied by the echoing metal sound of handcuffs hitting the bed post as Crowley's arm jerked and strained. They were both quiet for a long moment, Aziraphale's glassy eyes looking into Crowley's angry ones. 

"You knew I didn't want you to touch me," he said quietly. "You _forced_ me to-"

Crowley grit his teeth. "Don't say that."

"You knew I wasn't thinking straight, and that I was- that I was afraid of you, that I didn't want you to-"

Crowley moved forward suddenly, as far as the handcuffs allowed, feeling something - relief - when Aziraphale only took a very small step back.

" _Stop saying that_ ," he said, more than a little desperately, looking up at Aziraphale. "I- I _asked_ you and you said yes! Christ, you- you _begged_ me, angel. D'you remember? You-"

Aziraphale's eyes widened and he spinned around on his heels suddenly, too embarrassed at the memory, blurry as it was, to keep facing Crowley. Had he really expected Crowley to- to- what? Apologize? For... Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut tight as the unwanted memories flooded him, but couldn't keep back the tears that came so suddenly.

"I feel like... like you tore my wings out," he said wetly, sniffing, the events of the previous night suddenly hitting him like a speeding train. "Is that what you wanted? To ruin me?" He waited for an answer, but Crowley stayed quiet behind him, so he turned back to face him, no longer embarrassed by his tears.

"Did you _want_ to hurt me? To make me do something I didn't want?" he demanded.

Crowley looked stricken, his jaw clenched painfully as he shook his head, but he looked unsure, scared. Aziraphale gave him an exasperated look, shaking his head, feeling as torn as ever - and tired, so tired. He dropped back to the floor, sitting cross legged not far from Crowley.

"I didn't... realize," Crowley said quietly, now staring at his cup. "I should've but I... I let myself think it was real. That you wanted me too. That you trusted me, that you'd let me do anything, even- even something you didn't want. I- I wouldn't, but I... T-The thought that you'd let me..." Crowley stammered, unable to find the right words.

Aziraphale wiped at his tear stained face with the sleeve of his shirt - Crowley's shirt, one he left for him in that room. "Don't you see why that's cruel?"

Crowley winced, eyes darting up and back down again, back to examining the cup he was holding nervously, huffing as he tried to turn his grimace into a self deprecating smile. 

"Was I really so cruel?"

"I... don't know. I don't think you're cruel. But what you did was. It was wrong."

"I know."

"You do? And can you _feel_ that it was wrong?"

"Yes, I- I don't want to... er... hurt you," he finished, sounding entirely unconvinced of his own words. "Sorry, I... I don't know. I can't explain it, I'm sorry. But I would... I would never... t-tear your wings out, angel, never, and I don't want to- to ruin you, you're perfect, I just want to see you, all of you, as you are." He raised his eyes finally. "And I saw you last night, so much of you, and you-"

Crowley stopped abruptly upon witnessing Aziraphale's reaction to his words, the pain flashing across the angel's face at the memories of things Crowley so carelessly blabbered on about, and oh, _oh_ , suddenly he realized something. No, he had already realized it - but now he _felt_ it. He knew how it felt to be _seen_ when you didn't want to be seen, in _ways_ you didn't want to be seen. Like when Anathema saw him in the hotel room. Or the times she made him tell her things, things he didn't necessarily want to tell her. She never _forced_ him but he often felt like he didn't really have a choice and it could feel very... not good, to be so unwillingly exposed. _Not_ how he wanted to make his angel feel.

And at least Anathema did those things for his own good. What he did to Aziraphale had been... selfish. He wanted to see more of him, to see him bare and exposed before him in every sense of the word, and for the angel to want him back, to want him so much he would let go completely, doing a trust fall back into the black abyss that was Crowley. Like standing naked in the snow, willingly at Crowley's mercy, indulging his every whim, just _feeling_ whatever Crowley wanted him to feel, taking whatever he gave him. Crowley had acted on instinct to get what he wanted. He should've known better by now than to trust his rotten instincts, they were _wrong_ , everything he ever wanted was always wrong, and whenever he allowed himself to indulge, to let go, something wrong happened. There were no excuses left.

"Are you afraid I'll come after you? Is that why you're still here?" he asked.

Aziraphale actually looked offended. "No, I just wanted to - well, to bring you tea. See how you were doing."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "See how I was doing," he repeated. _Not bloody likely_. He raised his cup at Aziraphale with a straight face. "Ta."

They both sat there, sipping at their tea, avoiding each other's eyes.

"Do you think you would ever... do something to me, even if I asked you not to?"

Crowley thought long and hard before answering. He wanted to be truthful.

"I don't know," he said finally, giving Aziraphale an apologetic look. Aziraphale nodded but looked... disappointed. Troubled.

"I don't think they're your fault, your thoughts. Your... er, desires," Aziraphale said, frustrated with himself for blushing. "But if you _want_ me to be afraid of you, I..."

"I don't," Crowley said hurriedly. "I- I don't want you to be afraid of me, I want you to _see_ me, is all. And... and to want me. But you'll never- you can't see me and not be afraid. I know that."

"I've seen some parts of you I'm not afraid of," Aziraphale said, wincing at how unkind the words sounded. "Why- why don't we just... stick to those parts, for a while?"

"For a while?" Crowley repeated, sounding hopeful. Aziraphale felt that Crowley was putting in an effort to be open and truthful now, and he forced himself to be brave enough to return the favour.

"I... don't know why I drove up here, you know. It wasn't to return the money. I just couldn't- couldn't stop thinking about you. About... the way you looked at me," Aziraphale raised his head, meeting Crowley's eyes. "Yes, like- like that _,_ " he finished, swallowing nervously under Crowley's intense gaze. "I knew it was reckless but I..."

Aziraphale trailed off, searching Crowley's eyes. For what, Crowley did not know, and it made him nervous, like trying to pass a test without knowing the questions. But he must have passed, because suddenly Aziraphale was scooting closer, moving to sit next to Crowley with his back against the bed and resting the back of his head on Crowley's handcuffed arm. Crowley's pulse spiked. Aziraphale let his head drop to the right, lowering it on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley immediately moved his own head to rest on top of Azirahale's.

"Oh, angel," he purred dreamily, "too good, too good for me," and Aziraphale wondered briefly whether he should be worried by how quickly Crowley got lost in this again, how easily his hesitance and caution melted away, how quickly he forgot to worry about doing the wrong thing. But Aziraphale didn't want to think about that right now, he didn't want to be smart and responsible and to play it safe. He wanted to indulge himself - to bathe in Crowley's praise and adoration, so intense it could only stem from something dark and dangerous, an unhealthy obsession. But _God_ , it felt so good if he let it.

"I like the way you make me feel," Aziraphale said without thinking, but in that moment at least, it was the truth.

He felt the urge to do something reckless, to encourage Crowley to prove Aziraphale's words wrong. His hand moved seemingly on it's own accord, covering Crowley's free hand that was resting palm down on his knee. Neither of them moved for a few seconds, then Crowley's hand started to turn until their palms were pressing together, and they both moved their fingers to intertwine them. When Aziraphale rotated his head to look up at him, Crowley was staring hard at their clasped hands. He must have been aware of Aziraphale's gaze, though, because his eyes darted quickly to meet Aziraphale's before returning to observe their joined hands again. The cuffed man swallowed hard.

"Is this okay? Are you- am I doing something wrong?" he spoke without looking up, and Aziraphale didn't answer immediately, taking time to observe Crowley. He looked unsure of himself, dreading Aziraphale's answer. Aziraphale tucked his head back into the nook of Crowley's neck, letting out a sigh.

"I'm sorry if I'm confusing you, my dear. I'm confused, too. But this-" he said gently, giving Crowley's hand a squeeze, "-is okay. It's... good. Thank you for asking me."

Aziraphale reached forward to pick up his cup, and they sat there in silence, disturbed only by the occasional sound of Aziraphale's sipping at what little tea he had left.

After a while - maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour, Aziraphale's stomach growled loudly, and with Crowley's head resting on his, he could feel the taller man's mouth move into a smile. He smiled too then, apologizing, and Crowley just laughed.


	9. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda messy and the story skips ahead a few weeks here. Didn't plan on this but that's what I ended up writing, hope you guys like it. (I'll probably do like a flashback or two to the first few days after the cottage incident). Feedback appreciated as always!

"You've been awfully quiet today," Aziraphale said around a mouthful of angel cake, looking at Crowley whose distant and worried look quickly transformed into one of breezy nonchalance.

Things had been going... remarkably well these past two weeks, ever since the first time they'd met up after that day at the cottage. After that, they saw each other nearly every other day - Crowley always finding some new extravagant restaurant with outrageously delicious sounding desserts Aziraphale just _had_ to try, or getting tickets to a play (which was what happened last night - it was a _premiere_ , and they had the best seats in the house, and Aziraphale couldn't possibly turn down such an opportunity, so he didn't). And each time they'd gone out, Crowley had been not only incredibly well-behaved, but also quite disarmingly charming at times. Aziraphale had started to feel more and more at ease in his presence, genuinely enjoying Crowley's company when he allowed himself to forget... certain things.

And after a glass of wine or two, Crowley sometimes got the feeling the angel was _flirting with him -_ but he wasn't about to jump to any conclusions, not with that broken brain of his. He did, however, occasionally attempt to test his theory - carefully, of course - like right now, by replying with:

"I much prefer listening to the lovely sounds you make, angel."

Aziraphale blushed and smiled shyly, and Crowley's heart did a thing. (Later, alone in his apartment, Crowley will try his best but fail not to imagine Aziraphale blushing and smiling at a different confession, like 'I'd like to lick those crumbs off your chin and out of your mouth' or 'I want to keep you in a glass box and only take you out to fill you up'.) How brilliant his angel looked when he was happy and enjoying himself, with his radiant smile and glittering eyes - that was the way Crowley often imagined him now, when he thought about him.

Crowley watched him eat his cake blissfully, giving in and accepting a bite himself after Aziraphale's relentless insisting that he do so. ' _Just exquisite, don't you think?'_ the angel had asked and Crowley hummed and nodded and continued to observe the flashes of sinful pleasure on Aziraphale's face with every bite he took.

Crowley insisted on paying for the food every time they went out, despite Aziraphale's protests - one could hardly be blamed for wanting to be at least _partially_ responsible for making the angel's face's contort with pleasure. And if after, late in the evening, one imagined it had been something other than pastries and sushi that had made his angel sigh and moan, well, one could hardly be blamed for that. Besides, those were _good_ thoughts, and Crowley _should_ hold onto them, feed them. Make them take up more space, the space that was usually saturated with ugly, vile things that unceasingly tried to poison Crowley's mind. Today, one particular feeling had managed to bury it's claws in Crowley despite his attempts to fight it off, and it just held on and grew relentlessly.

The restaurant - if it could be called that - that they were currently sitting in was Aziraphale's choice. This was the first time he had been the one to suggest they meet up again - texting Crowley well after midnight last night, several hours after they'd parted their ways at the theater bar. (Aziraphale cried at the end of the play, and Crowley struggled to keep his mind blank and void of any thoughts or memories until the angel's tears dried. _)_

Incredibly, Aziraphale's message read:

_'Dearest Crowley, the most interesting thought regarding the play just crossed my mind, we simply must discuss it! But I warn you, my memory is not what it used to be, and I fear some of these truly MOST intriguing results of my musings will be long forgotten by the time we meet on Sunday, as you proposed (crying emoji). I do think it would be best we meet sooner - tomorrow for breakfast, perhaps? Lest these fascinating and thought-provoking ideas of mine become forever lost to us in the ether! I'll text you the address. xx'_

(Crowley had to squint his eyes through the entire message, struggling to read after the letters 'Dearest Crowley' had been burned into his retinas and obscured his view.)

This _most interesting_ thought turned out to be _not at all_ interesting and neither of them bothered to pretend to be surprised by that. As for the place Aziraphale had picked... well, it was in Aziraphale's price range, and that was already all the information Crowley really needed, but the dead fly on the table (Aziraphale's favorite spot - apparently he was a regular) confirmed Crowley's suspicions: the place was a complete _dump_ , bordering on offensive, as seemed to be the service and - undoubtedly - the food. His angel, however, had taken two paper napkins and transferred the dead fly ( _gently_ , of course) from their table and onto the dry soil of a nearby dead-or-dying decorative plant, insisting Crowley not speak a word of it to their server (' _It's not their fault they're under-staffed, Crowley, there's no need to needlessly embarrass them!_ '). Aziraphale knew the entire menu by heart and savored every bite of the insultingly mediocre cake.

But then there was also... _that_. The thing that had been clawing at Crowley.

"What is it?" Aziraphale tried again.

"Sorry, what?" Crowley returned casually, eyebrows raised.

"You seem... distracted. Something's been bothering you," Aziraphale said, scraping the last crumbs of angel cake off the plate. (' _Haven't been staring at me while I eat like you usually do'_ was what he meant to say.)

"Just thinking," Crowley shrugged, "about... things. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Well, that doesn't really narrow it down with you," Aziraphale teased and smiled nervously.

"Alright, what's next?" Crowley said suddenly, grabbing the menu carelessly and frowning dramatically in disappointment as he scanned for something worthy of melting on Aziraphale's tongue. "Ah, here we go. Matcha ice cream?"

Aziraphale grimaced. "Of all the ice cream in the world, must you pick one that's _green_?"

"Hm, yes. You're right, of course. Quite an offensive colour, green. Did you know that grass in _Nazi Germany_ was green? Real bastard of a colour, that one. And now it's on _our_ ice cream."

Aziraphale's smile was wide. "Matcha is Japanese, dear, it's hardly _ours_ ," he retorted, looking at Crowley fondly.

"Crepes?" asked Crowley, and that got him an enthusiastic nod.

(The waitress was an exceptionally beautiful young woman, with kind and gentle eyes that matched Aziraphale's. When she had first come to take their order earlier, Crowley saw the angel's eyes soften when he looked away from him and to her, and his heart clenched painfully. Compared to that, the way he looked at Crowley seemed... dimmed, wary, guarded. And the woman _adored_ Aziraphale, her affection was palpable and it made Crowley sick to his stomach. Their chatter quickly melted into background noise as dark thoughts enveloped him very suddenly. 'I was starting to worry, Az, you haven't been in for weeks!' - _massive, soft-looking white wings sprung out from behind Aziraphale, and Crowley pinned them down onto a soft surface like a butterfly's -_ 'Has it really been that long? Oh I do hope you weren't actually worried, my dear!' - _Crowley gathered everyone that's ever made Aziraphale smile, soaked them in gasoline and lit a match_ \- 'Well, you've come back at a perfect time! We've got a freshly-baked angel cake today!' - _Aziraphale smiled dreamily as they watched the fire, saying_ 'my dear, thank you, now I can focus all my love on you'. Crowley forcibly derailed that train of thought as soon as he became aware of it. Maybe a second or two after.)

Crowley was more prepared the second time round - putting on his best performance when the server walked over again, ordering the crepes for Aziraphale and smiling pleasantly as he watched her hand land on Aziraphale's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze before leaving. The ugly thing growing inside Crowley pulsed violently and felt ready to burst.

"So... _Az_ ," Crowley said, a bit too casually. "Who is that, anyway? Girlfriend?"

Aziraphale stared at him, looking baffled. "I- no, _no_ , why would you think that?"

"Oh, just seemed like you two were acting a tad... _familiar._ But I suppose you'll let just anyone do that." _  
_

Aziraphale gaped at him. "Do _what_? Crowley, she's- you know that I'm not- not... _interested_ ," he finished bashfully.

"Ah, of course" Crowley smiled venomously. "You'd prefer the male server?"

"Why are you- where is this coming from?"

He couldn't really answer that, of course, not without breaking this negative peace they'd created. So he looked away instead, gritting his teeth as he stared a hole in the table. All their time together after the cottage had been spent with an elephant in the room. Aziraphale obviously didn't want to let go of the illusion just yet, so Crowley kept going, kept on being this charming version of himself - not entirely fake, just artificially sweetened, with a lot left unspoken.

"I don't like it. The way you smile at her," he said, and Aziraphale was quiet for several moments.

"I... I think I'm gonna leave," Aziraphale said suddenly, and Crowley's eyes were on him in an instant. "You're... not acting like yourself. Maybe we should-"

"Are you serious? What exactly do you think I've been doing the past two weeks?"

Aziraphale's eyes started darting around nervously, avoiding Crowley's. "I just meant-"

"I've even been trying to change my bloody _thoughts_ for you, angel. Keep them- pure. But this isn't me. You know that, you've seen _me_."

"Stop it," Aziraphale said desperately in a hushed voice.

"And I can't just- you can't expect me to watch you let other people _enjoy_ _you_ like that and not- not-"

" _Stop it_ , Crowley!" Aziraphale looked on the verge of tears and Crowley shut his mouth, biting down on his tongue and swallowing the rest of the words.

Aziraphale stood suddenly and began fishing for his wallet with unsteady hands. "I- I don't know what's gotten into you. I have _friends_. I _smile_ at them," he said with a shaky voice.

Crowley kept himself glued to his chair. _Don't look threatening - don't loom, don't stare, don't touch, don't raise your voice_.

Aziraphale pulled out a few notes, slamming them on the table before looking at Crowley. "And perhaps if you stopped acting like you _own_ _me_ -"

Aziraphale's mouth froze when Crowley's eyes widened and darkened at the angel's words before he could catch himself. Aziraphale snapped his mouth shut and swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure, and when Crowley opened his mouth to speak, he grabbed his coat hurriedly and stormed out.


	10. If My Life Is Mine What Shouldn't I Do?

**2 days** after the cottage (~3 weeks ago)  


"I'm sorry I'm not enthusiastically endorsing the stupidest idea I've ever heard like you apparently expected me to, but if you'd just stop dismissing everything I say and actually _listen_ , you might realize that this really _is_ the stupidest idea you've ever had. Because it is, Aziraphale. It's very stupid."

Anathema had given Aziraphale her phone number before he left the cottage that day, telling him to call or text immediately if he ever sees Crowley again. Aziraphale ended up calling her and asking to meet only two days later, and now they were sitting in a lovely, bright-coloured cafe that seemed more like a place young girls go for tea after class and not at all like the sort of place you go to meet the best friend of a man before whom you've stood naked and in agony to beg for his phone number, although who knows _what_ school girls were into these days.

Aziraphale had been trying to justify his request to Anathema (and himself) a dozen different ways, downplaying what happened in the snow and... in the bed, and completely exaggerating how sorry Crowley was and how much he'd apologized to Aziraphale that last day when he'd gone to give him the tea. Even his attempt to make her feel guilty over handcuffing Crowley to the bedpost, ' _chaining him like an animal!',_ had left her unaffected, cool as a cucumber.

"I hear you, my dear, I do," Aziraphale started and Anathema rolled her eyes, "but-"

" _But_ , yes. _But_ you're worried about him, _but_ you have questions for him, _but_ he's so..." Anathema pouted her mouth, batting her eyelashes. "handsome and mysterious and dreeeeamy-"

" _But_ ," Aziraphale interrupted her loudly, his cheeks turning pink. " _But_..." he started again, then trailed off and sighed. "You're right. It was a silly idea."

"Oh I'm so glad you've come to the correct conclusion _after_ exhausting every possible way of making me go along with this," Anathema said, taking an angry sip of her tea. Maybe she was being a bit too hard on him, but the attitude you develop after two decades of dealing with Crowley is what it is. Aziraphale didn't at all seem like the sort of man who lies and hurts and manipulates but she could tell how desperate he was to get in contact with him, and when people are desperate, they do things that are out of character.

"It just seems like a bad note to end things on. Wouldn't it be better for him- or, or _safer_ for everyone if we..." he trailed off at the exasperated look on Anathema's face.

Anathema could tell the blonde was clearly infatuated, romanticizing his experience with Crowley and rationalizing away any doubts she tried to sow in his head. She also suspected - in fact, she was certain - that Aziraphale was withholding facts of what really happened at the cottage. If she could just get her hands on Crowley, she would make him tell her _everything,_ but the bastard had disappeared from the cottage that day during the time it took Anathema to walk Aziraphale to his car, and she hadn't seen him since. That made her... extra cranky.

"How about _I_ decide what the safest course of action is, and not the guy who drove off to the middle of no where to meet the lunatic from the bar? Does that make sense?"

Aziraphale looked away sheepishly and she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you have friends, Aziraphale? People you care about? People you want to keep safe?"

He frowned at her and nodded.

"How do you think a guy like Crowley would feel about that? About _sharing_ you, Aziraphale? Does he seem like the sort of person who likes to share his things?"

" _His thi-_ I only said I wanted to _talk_ to him! I'm not proposing we... _marry_ or something _!"_ Aziraphale exclaimed a little too loudly, his face now flushed.

"No? What _are_ you proposing? Secret monthly meet-ups in a basement? Keeping him separate from your _real_ life and making use of him when things get too vanilla and you want a thrill? Does Crowley seem like the type of person who would handle that well? Just forget and get on with his life until the next little bad BDSM session?"

Aziraphale shushed her, looking around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. "Stop it, it's _not_ like that!"

"Whatever. Not like you'd tell me. You're curious, Aziraphale, I get it, okay? I know he can..." she trailed off and swallowed hard. "He can just be whatever you want him to be. He does that. Not always on purpose but he- he gives you what you want so he can get what _he_ wants."

Aziraphale was shaking his head. "No, you're wrong, he didn't do anything I-... H-he was forthright, he was _painfully_ honest and-"

"Okay, no, we're not having this conversation again," Anathema interrupted him. "Believe what you want, Azira. You may not care about your own safety-" Aziraphale opened his mouth to interrupt her but she continued, "and maybe he..." she exhaled and closed her eyes for a beat, "maybe he cares about you enough to fight those noxious instincts of his. I'm not saying that's impossible, I know he's capable of it." She'd started speaking much more softly now, trying one last time to get through to him. "But if you decide to let him into your life, Aziraphale, you're also making that choice for all the people that are already part of your life. Trust me on this."

"Has he ever _actually_ hurt anyone?"

"You tell me," Anathema returned and Aziraphale had to look away. He wasn't sure what his answer was.

"Let's just leave it at that, Aziraphale. You haven't really taken my words seriously this entire conversation and- no, don't, it's fine, really, I'm just... done."

She stood up, gathering her purse and jacket. "Thanks for the tea," she said, giving Aziraphale a long look then left before she had to hear the man repeat another excuse.

* * *

**8 days** after the cottage (~2 weeks ago)

"Didn't really think you'd show up."

Apparently he couldn't think of anything more original to say, but then again the sentence has probably never been uttered in a situation like this. Really, though, Crowley did _not_ expect he'd actually show up, despite how tempted Aziraphale had sounded over the phone to visit a three Michelin stars restaurant (Crowley had booked every single table so they could have the entire dining room to themselves, but Aziraphale didn't know that yet).

"It would be a sin to turn down an opportunity like this," Aziraphale said unconvincingly, meaning the opposite. Anathema's words echoed in his head.

But then Crowley spent the entire evening being wonderful company, sharp-witted, funny and playfully cheeky, just bloody irresistibly _charming_ , and still saying strange, inappropriate things but with a smile and tongue-in-cheek attitude that made it okay (' _Crowley, no, please, it's- really, I can't even believe they're_ allowed _to charge this much for anything that wouldn't feed a family of four for a week, but a slice of c-' 'Well I'm ordering it, and you can donate it to a church for all I care, but quite frankly you eating cheap dessert is far more offensive to me personally than a family of four starving for a week' 'Crowley!')._

Anathema's words of warning faded from Aziraphale's mind with every passing hour. Crowley continued being well-behaved, a perfect gentleman, and Aziraphale started to feel even more foolish about making such a big deal out of what happened in the cottage. He hadn't been thinking clearly, he'd been drunk on the cold and the fear, and his mind was numbed and slow and _must have_ imagined at least _some_ of the things - who knows which things exactly? (' _You agreed to it, you did it willingly_.') Who's to say he didn't just imagine all the... (' _How was_ I _supposed to know_ you _didn't know what_ you _were doing?') ..._ all the _bad_ stuff? 

And maybe he'd overreacted at the bar, too, maybe what Crowley had done wasn't really _that_ strange - it did have that whole Pretty Woman feel to it (' _You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen_ ') and that wasn't _so_ bad (' _Does he seem like the sort of person who likes to share his things?'_ ), and maybe his panicky subconsciousness magnified the eerie vibe the man gave off the first time he saw him, and then he just created this- this image of him in his head and- ( _'Do you think you would ever... do something to me, even if I asked you not to?' 'I don't know.')_ and maybe Crowley really was this pleasant, charismatic, graceful, generous- _('Fuck, angel. Can't believe- can't believe you're letting me do this.') -_ and damn it, damn Aziraphale's mind, why did it all have to be so confusing and- _  
_

"Gentlemen, I'm so terribly sorry to interrupt, but, ah... it's two hours past our closing time. We can't legally be open anymore. I'm- I'm so sorry, truly."

Crowley's demeanor shifted so suddenly it felt like all the lights went out in the room at the same time, his face draining of all emotion. Aziraphale had to look away, then jumped in his seat when the loud clinking sound of a fork being carelessly dropped onto a plate resonated through the large empty room.

"My sincerest apologies," Aziraphale heard and looked up to see Crowley holding his credit card between two fingers, facing the apprehensive server but eyes looking sideways at Aziraphale, giving him a little smile. Aziraphale smiled back, and the server took the credit card while doing a sort of awkward bow.

They went to a bar for (more) drinks.

Tomorrow, Aziraphale wouldn't be able to recall _what_ they talked about so much as how it _felt_ \- the feeling of a shy smile spreading over his face, Crowley's eyes fixed on his lips when he took a sip of his drink, the rush of giving in and engaging in flirty banter, of purposefully bumping their legs together (Crowley's knee felt bony and sharp against the soft flesh on Aziraphale's thigh).

A warm feeling spread all over Aziraphale as he watched Crowley lean in his bar stool and reach over, pressing a single finger against Aziraphale's forearm - making a little bridge for an insect that had somehow ended up on Aziraphale's sweater, then holding it up so they could both take a better look at it, their eyes already struggling to focus after the amount of alcohol they'd consumed. ('D'you want to keep it?' 'Oh but I wouldn't know how to take care of this little fellow.' 'I'm sure you'd love it so fiercely it wouldn't even need food or shelter.')

Aziraphale felt giddy the entire cab ride home, thinking about Crowley's lopsided smiles and his long fingers wrapped around utensils and glasses and bottles.

Crowley walked to his apartment, remembering the smudged little chocolate stains in the corners of his angel's mouth and the sounds that escaped him when he took a bite of the scandalously priced cake.

He only interrupted his pleasant, wonderfully _normal_ train of thought to make a phone call that would result in the restaurant losing two Michelin stars in the next couple of days.

* * *

**6 days** after the cottage

When Crowley finally returned to his main apartment for the first time since the cottage, Anathema was there. Her stuff lying around indicated she must have been there for days - she was so _messy_ , it always drove Crowley mad - as did the fact that he found her sleeping in his bed. He woke her up by throwing her own shoe at her, but that was not the reason a murderous look descended over her features the moment she opened her eyes. He immediately turned and headed to the kitchen, yelling over his shoulder for her to get dressed and get the hell out, but she just let out a roaring laugh.

He made tea in silence while she half-screamed everything she'd been wanting to say for the past week, and she was getting angrier by the second, enraged by his lack of response to her questions and accusations. And the longer she went on, the nastier her words got. She forced herself to sit down and shut up for a full minute, giving Crowley the opportunity to start talking, but... nothing. The fact that she actually expected him to come back crawling on his knees and begging her to forgive him, and instead was met with _this,_ was starting to make her nervous.

"Crowley," she started somberly, "if you don't tell me the truth, _all of it_ , I'll-"

"You'll what?!" he boomed then, finally, twisting around to face her. "You'll _what_ , Anathema? You'll leave me?"

She pressed her lips together into a thin line and held his gaze.

"I'm gone for six days and you crawl into my bed to hibernate until I come back - and you're threatening to leave me? _Please,_ " he hissed unkindly.

"Next time I'll just call the cops," she bit right back, "give them everything I have and let them worry about-"

"For fuck's sake, stop _fucking_ threatening me!" Crowley yelled and the realization that it was _real_ anger forced Anathema to take an involuntary step back. Crowley was holding onto the kitchen counter like trying to forcefully anchor himself there. "You and your incessant need to guilt-trip and threaten me and bend me to your fucking will."

"Oh, sorry, is being threatened and manipulated and fearing for your own safety not a fun fucking experience?" she retorted daringly. "Do you think Aziraphale-

"Anathema," Crowley interrupted her and it was like hearing the sound of ice cracking while standing in the middle of a large frozen lake - a warning. She could either shuffle carefully to the shore or start jumping up and down like the reckless madwoman she was.

"Do you think he didn't feel threatened? _Miserable_? Do you think he did whatever he did by choice? Are you really that _naive_?" she continued, drawing new lines in the ice as Crowley's grip on the counter tightened and his jaw clenched. "Dammit, Crowley, you know, you _know_ how you get and don't tell me it's different this time. You _know_ you can't have this. If you care about him, you won't do this to him."

Crowley looked away then and the anger finally seemed to dissipate from his body. The room was deadly quiet for a full minute before the water started boiling, and when Anathema looked up, Crowley was staring at her in a way he hadn't in a long, long time. The ice had cracked and she was already at the bottom of the fucking lake.

He turned around then and poured the hot water into his cup.

"I don't want to insult your intelligence by reminding you that I can make anything disappear." He poked around the different little boxes of expensive tea before finally choosing one and dumping it into his cup. "I'm a little embarrassed for you really, trying to hold me hostage with a water gun," he continued and Anathema stared at the back of his neck in silence. Then he reached into his pocket, fishing out his phone as he turned around. Fingers tapping at the screen, he made his way towards Anathema, only looking up into her eyes when he was barely half a step away. He held out the phone to her. "You wanna call the police? Here."

They stood in silence for what seemed like a fucking eternity to Anathema, feeling a rush of panic at the look he was giving her. She swallowed hard and that seemed to be enough of an answer for Crowley. He slid the phone back into his pocket, keeping his eyes on hers.

"The only thing keeping me from him is the fear of losing you. But Anathema..."

Suddenly she felt cold skin on her throat - fingers resting against the softness of her throat, almost gentle, but his eyes looked empty when he said "I would hurt you. For him, I would. Don't keep him from me, Anathema."

Crowley left after that, and when Anathema was done emptying her stomach into the toilet, she downed a bottle of the most potent thing she could find in Crowley's liquor cabinet to help her forget she'd just failed her best friend.

* * *

15 days later (now)

**From** : Aziraphale

 **Text** : I'm with Crowley. Could you come pick me up?

The next text was an address and Anathema was out the door before Google Maps finished calculating the optimal route.


	11. Macavity's a Ginger Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is continuing from where chapter 9 left off (breakfast, waitress friend, Aziraphale storming out, all that jazz) AND where the previous chapter left off (Anathema getting the text from Aziraphale). In case there was any confusion which I'm sure there was because this is me writing.
> 
> P.S.: Thanks so much for the comments guys, really motivates me to keep writing knowing there's people out there who are excited to read more! <3

It took Anathema a lot longer to arrive at the restaurant than what Google had promised.

First she couldn't find a parking space, and then she couldn't find Aziraphale. She tried calling - no answer. She looked everywhere, inside and out. She finally went to ask the only remaining staff member she hadn't talked to yet - a pretty young waitress - and found out Aziraphale had left maybe a little over half an hour ago, and that the man he was with left not long after.

"Why are you asking? Did something happen to Az?"

Hell if she knew, but he must have been pretty scared to actually text her, right?

"Thanks for the help."

* * *

41 minutes ago

"Wait, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale turned startled from where he was standing on the street. "No!" he exclaimed, hands flying up. "Crowley, please, just... go back," he finished a little more calmly.

Crowley looked troubled, eyes scanning Aziraphale's face and form like he was looking for clues on how to salvage this. "Are you... are you really so afraid now? Just because I... I mean I only..."

Aziraphale looked hesitant but interrupted Crowley with a raised hand. "No, I... I don't know," he said dolefully. "I just know I should be."

Crowley almost said ' _yes, yes, of course you should be, get as far away as you possibly can'_ , but instead he painted a remorseful look on his face, unsuccessfully trying to tone down the desperation. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was just- she was- the way you looked at her, Aziraphale, I... please, I would never-" he swallowed the rest of the words at the sad look on his friend's face, shoulders slumping as he thought _ah, this is it then_. It was too late for damage control - Aziraphale remembered. Remembered who Crowley was, _what_ he was.

"You can't react like that because I look at someone fondly, my dear, you just can't," Aziraphale said softly and Crowley's heart skipped a beat, _my dear my dear my dear_ echoing in his head.

"N-no, no, of course not, no, you're right. That's- it's no excuse, none at all."

Maybe. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe he could make this last a little longer, hook it up on life support and artificially extend it's lifespan. Except... he was already doing that. That's what these little rendezvous of theirs _were,_ and now he'd gone and punctured the bloody oxygen tube because he couldn't keep his claws to himself.

"I'm sorry, angel, I am. Please, we've been doing so well... Haven't we?" he asked with a small smile, like a piece of tape over the leaking tube, and Aziraphale's face softened. Crowley took a few steps closer as he spoke. "I know you enjoy the time we spend together. You feel _good_ when you're with me, don't you?" He closed what distance was left between them and cautiously reached for Aziraphale's hand. "Don't you, my angel?"

Aziraphale nodded as he stared at their hands.

"And I've- I've only made this _one_ mistake, haven't I? Don't punish me so severely for it, angel, please."

Crowley slid his hand from Aziraphale's wrist and across his palm, running gentle fingertips over the sensitive skin there and making the angel shiver. But Aziraphale looked unsure and overwhelmed, and Crowley felt a pang of guilt strong enough to let go and take a step back.

"I ordered this, er, what was it... toasted marshmallow butterscotch pie for you yesterday," he said, trying out a completely different tone, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that had just held Aziraphale's. "What am I going to do with an entire pie, eh Aziraphale? And you know I'm not as appreciative as you - it'd be wasted on me anyway."

Aziraphale was still avoiding his eyes, worrying his lip.

"Let's go sit by the lake," Crowley said suddenly, in a voice he hoped was non-threatening but still left no room for argument. "I have a bottle or two of red in the car."

Aziraphale looked at him apprehensively at that, finally speaking. "I... It's not even noon, Crowley."

"Come on, angel. A little fresh air before you head back to... to wherever it is you were going."

Just a while longer, just a little more, then he'd let him go.

* * *

Crowley really did have two bottles of red in his car and although the wine in both was identical, they still exchanged the bottles every now and then as they drank. This was Aziraphale's first time drinking nearly an entire bottle of wine on a nearly empty stomach before 11am (and Crowley's fifth or sixth time), and he was now way past tipsy and well on his way to properly drunk. It was almost easy to fall back into their old routine like this, clever quips and careless drunken laughs, and they were both _cold_ but neither of them wanted to actually say it out loud and that was fine too because they were already used to so many things being left unsaid.

Before long Aziraphale looked relaxed again, almost as if this morning never happened. Just another elephant in the room to ignore. Soon there wouldn't be any space left for the two of them, Crowley thought. They'd be crushed by a weight they both refused to acknowledge.

"D'you know a... a _tablespoon_ of neutron star, er... stuff, weighs more than Mount Everest?" Crowley slurred from where he was elegantly slouching over his side of the bench.

"How much is that then?"

"How m- you're missing the point! A _tablespoon_ -"

"Yes, yes, I know. I suppose I just don't-" Aziraphale was interrupted by his own hiccup and he held a hand over his mouth politely, "-find it so very interesting."

"Tough crowd," whistled Crowley, staring at a patch of grass he'd been trying to tear out with his foot or at least trample beyond recovery. "Well, I thought it was brilliant. You tell me something interesting then." Just keep talking, keep drinking, keep sitting there and pretending until a black hole swallows them both.

" _You_ 're interesting," Aziraphale returned.

Crowley hummed in agreement.

"A little _too_ interesting, perhaps," the shorter man added.

"S'ppose so."

Crowley wasn't sure where Aziraphale was going with this but he didn't intend to find out. He needed to steer the conversation away from anything... serious, anything that really mattered. _The elephant(s)_.

"All those books you've read and that's the most interesting thing you've got for me? Come on, make a bloody effort."

From the corner of his eye he could see Aziraphale looking at him in silence, swaying somewhat left and right, before he finally leaned back against the bench and turned to stare at the lake. Crowley thought he saw him smile but was terrified of the moment shattering if he moved to check.

"Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin," Aziraphale said suddenly, slowly, like he was remembering the words as he spoke them. Crowley frowned. Had his angel lost his mind after a single bottle of wine?

"You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in," he continued in a distant voice, trailing off into an uncomfortably long silence before finally continuing with a lighter tone and a sing-song quality to his voice. "His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed, his coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed."

After a few beats of silence, Crowley finally turned to look at him, watching the angel's lips start to move again as he half-sang the words in a beautiful melody that should have calmed Crowley's racing mind but only served to do the opposite.

"He sways his head from _side_ to _side_ ," Aziraphale continued, doing the motion with his head to accentuate the words, "with movements like a snake, and when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake. Macavity, Macavity... there's no one like Macavity..." he said, his voice softening towards the end, "for he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity."

Crowley swallowed and Aziraphale turned, a small smile playing on his lips when his kind eyes landed on Crowley's. "T.S. Elliot."

"Ah," was all Crowley managed, looking away again to stare a hole in the ground while the melody echoed in his head.

Then Aziraphale surprised him by suddenly saying "I'm sorry for how I reacted earlier" in an solemn voice and Crowley felt another pang of guilt. He successfully beguiled Aziraphale into believing he was the one who owed an apology. (Maybe Anathema would be proud of him for at least feeling guilty about it.)

"Oh, that's-" Crowley straightened a little before catching himself doing it and forcibly relaxing again, "yeah. No worries, angel. Entirely my fault."

"I think I want to see you again."

"Oh. Yeah. Good, good, that's- good. I'm- glad," Crowley stammered, taken by surprise again. "Thank you."

This was good. Really good. _Much_ better than expected. He'd get the chance to apologize with countless gifts and pastries and tickets, and things would get back to normal, he'd continue to be this... watered down, _censored_ version of himself, filtering out all the filth and never again allowing it to reveal itself like that and risk what he and Aziraphale now had. A tiny fraction of what Crowley really wanted but still so much more than he deserved.

"No, I mean..." Aziraphale turned to face him but Crowley kept his gaze stubbornly on the ground between his feet until there was a light touch on his forearm. He looked at his arm and the fingers resting on it, then finally faced the angel who was looking at him seriously (as seriously as only a drunken man can), his head wobbling a little. " _You_. I... I want to see _you_ again."

Crowley swallowed hard and twisted to face forward again, pulling his arm away slightly, forcing Aziraphale to let go. Not good, not good, this was _not_ good. The ugly cloud of thoughts that threatened to swarm his mind was _not good_. He shook his head and huffed.

"You said - remember? - you said I couldn't see you and not be afraid. But I _want_ to see you, even if I'm afraid, I still want to. That's my choice."

Crowley stared at the ground aggressively. "Why are you doing this now? Can't we just- let's just-"

"I don't want you to feel like you have to _pretend_ with me," Aziraphale went on in his drunken daze and Crowley almost laughed at that.

"Aziraphale, you just ran out on me not an hour ago when I-"

" _That_ wasn't _you_ , it was- it was _jealousy_ ," Aziraphale said hurriedly, but slurring the words a little. "A dark, nasty emotio-"

" _All of me_ is dark and nasty, Aziraphale, that's the _point_!" Crowley nearly yelled, finally turning to face him.

"Oh please!" Aziraphale spat, grabbing the bottle from Crowley and taking an angry swig. "Well, fine! So I want to see something dark and nasty then!"

Crowley cringed and looked away again. "Bit hurtful when you say it, actually," he mumbled and reached blindly to snatch back the bottle.

They sat in silence for a whole blessed minute before Aziraphale ruined it.

"I've already seen... some of it. Haven't I? And I'm still here."

Crowley huffed out a laugh, his fingers tightening around the bottle. "Yeah, because you're lying to yourself and buying into my shite."

"Excuse me?"

Crowley leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and stared at his feet.

"And if I weren't such a bastard I'd..." he murmured to himself, then let out a long, shaky exhale. "I'm not really... _pretending_ , you know, I just... I'm- I... _ach_ , I don't... ah _fuck_ ," he buried his face in his hands and tried to slow his breathing. "Fuck, _fuck_ , I can't- I just, I- I don't know what I'm supposed to... I... I can't fuck this up, I _can't_ ," he slid his hands up and pressed his palms against his eyes, drawing in shaky breaths. Christ, was he having a bloody panic attack? He couldn't _think_ , his brain was on fucking fire.

Aziraphale really was completely _deluded_ , asking for something he would never be asking for in the right state of mind. _Wasn't that the whole_ point _?_ a vicious little voice in Crowley's head hissed. Wasn't that Crowley's endgame? Didn't he steadily work to confuse the angel, make him question his own feelings and memories by presenting himself as this charming, normal... _good_ person? To make Aziraphale lose confidence in his own judgement? Wasn't this what he'd been waiting for? For Aziraphale to be suggestible and meek and only willing in the strictest sense of the word, his consent either dragged out of him due to fear or - at best - by Crowley's guile and trickery.

And now Aziraphale was finally asking - willingly _asking_ to stand on the edge and look into the void again and Crowley felt sick to his stomach. Half of his instincts were screaming at him to pounce and let out his... his poisonous bloody demon tentacles and use whatever means necessary to persuade the angel to tolerate all the nasty, wrong things Crowley's dreamt of doing to him.

Maybe... maybe he could get him drunk enough, just like he was drunk on the cold and the pain and the fear of dying in Crowley's cottage, in that bed, drunk enough to wrap himself around Crowley's warm body and beg, saying _yes yes you're all I want_ with a desperate, pathetic whine.

But what would he have to do to make Aziraphale forget _this_ time? How much begging and coaxing and sweet talking, how many bottles of wine and slices of cake would it take before he once again fooled Aziraphale into believing _this_ was who Crowley really was? That the memories of whatever depraved words, cruel touches or degrading commands Crowley allowed to escape him had perhaps not been as twisted as Aziraphale remembered, that they'd surely been augmented by Aziraphale's own mind, overblown and turned into something darker than what they actually were. That Crowley was really just a man who took him out to dinner and made him smile, not a man who had ' _torn his wings out_ ', _'hurt him', 'ruined him'_. ( _'Don't you see why that's cruel?' 'Can you_ feel _that it was wrong?'_ ) Yes, yes, Crowley did see it, he could _feel_ it, and it felt _wrong_. _This_ was better, what they had now - even if it too was blackened by Crowley's deception. He should just... just...

"Agh, bloody hell, angel, it's too early. Why'd you make me drink so early? On a public park bench no less," he tried, speaking from behind his hands. Aziraphale remained silent, but Crowley could make out the distinct sound of vibrating keys being pressed on a smartphone. Then, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He lifted his head from where he'd been hiding it in his hands, blinking a few times at the brightness. He turned to squint at Aziraphale who was facing away slightly, staring off into the distance. His usually white porcelain cheeks were now flushed a furious red.

Crowley reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone and pressing a thumb to unlock it. He took one look at the message and his hand spasmed, the phone plummeting to the ground.

He stared at the words that were still visible from where the phone was lying in the dirt.

* * *

**From** : My angel

 **Text** : wheneber im cold i rmember the way you lookd at me and i cn hardly keep from touching myself

* * *


	12. A Double-Blind Clinical Study of the Effectiveness of Unconditional Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys honestly??? I found this difficult to write and I kinda wish I hadn't wasted so much time on this chapter but here we are! Ugh! It's a bunch of snippets of pre-Anathema kid!Crowley probably developing some sort of mommy issues via their hippie gardener and trying to talk to a bunch of animals and just generally having a hard time, as per uge B) hope you enjoy

Crowley was born with so many faults he never really stood a snowflake's chance in hell.  


He came out of the womb _silent_ , according to his mother. Of course the doctors had actually explained to her that he'd been affected by the many pain medication and sedatives she had received before and during the painful childbirth, but his mother would tell him a very different story.  


His hair was an unnaturally deep red. Another rare phenomenon with a medical explanation that was just a tad too complicated for his mother to fully understand, so she made up her own. She would start dyeing it brown before he was old enough to know he had hair at all.

Worst of all were his eyes. It wasn't just the yellow of his irises - there also used to be two dark patches that ran vertically over his pupils, making them look like slits. It disappeared on it's own after a few months just like the doctors said it would, but the unsettling yellow remained.  _Oh, those damned eyes of yours, Crowley...'_ his mother would whisper to him on a good day after she'd allowed him to climb onto her lap and leech off her warmth. _'You know they were so much more terrible when you were born. Oh it took hours to get you out of me and then I saw those- oh, those terrible, terrible-'._

And of course eventually he started speaking, and his speech disorder revealed itself, his hissed s's making him appear even more sinister and snake-like than he already was. 

Monsters and demons were make-believe but for all intents and purposes, that's what Crowley was.

* * *

Crowley was probably the only six year old boy in the whole of England who knew words like "demonic child possession" and "grandiose–manipulative and callous–unemotional psychopathic traits". He had seen at least five different therapists by the time (his father picked those when he could find the time), had regular visits from their priest (his mother insisted), was on several different medications and had already been institutionalized once (best to get an early start and get used to it, really).

On the day of his seventh birthday, however, he would learn of a completely new form of therapy. One that was more to his mother's liking.

On the night before his seventh birthday, Crowley was kneeling in front of his bed, hands clasped with his elbows resting on the covers, murmuring his evening prayers. _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name._ Nothing heartfelt, nothing true or unique - the old classics were always the safest bet.  


Much like every other night, he'd left the door open, hoping his mother would see him if she happened to walk by, her demon son praying dutifully. She might say something like ' _oh, oh I'm so proud of you, ~~Josh~~ Crowley, so so proud of you, look at that!_' like he heard his classmate's mother say once, and all Josh had done was win some stupid plastic trophy for a picture he drew of his family.  (Crowley heard it because he had to stay there after class and wait for his mother in the principle's office, so he could be scolded and asked things about his drawing that he didn't know how to answer, and the car ride home would be a deathly silence except for the loud crumpling of his drawing as his mother smashed it in her hand and threw it out the window.)

She didn't walk by, and it was probably for the best.

. . .

He woke up the next day feeling possibly quite excited for his birthday party.

Unfortunately, as he would soon find out, the party had been cancelled (in fact had never been planned to begin with) - after all, it really would have been terribly impolite to have a house full of children when you were about to receive a visit from Vatican's top exorcist. Indeed, his family was as rich as it was hysterical. You would expect five hours of staring at crosses and having an old man in a dress chant things like ' _Pray therefore the God of Peace to crush Satan beneath our feet, take hold of the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan, bind him and cast him into the bottomless pit that he may no longer seduce the nations_ ' would be quite boring, but actually, it was very much a terrifying ordeal for someone who's only been seven for nine hours. They wouldn't untie him to let him go to the bathroom, and when he peed himself everybody in the room pretended not to notice.

(He stayed up late and waited for his father that day, and when he finally walked tiredly through the front door - a look of disappointment on his face when he saw that Crowley was awake - Crowley hurried over, knowing he only had as much time as it took for his father to shuffle over to the coat-hanger, then across the hall to the living room where the door that led into the side of the building only his father was allowed to enter was. (After that, who knew when he'd see him again.) Crowley struggled to speak as fast as he could, telling his father everything that had happened, and some more.  "Crazy fuckin' woman," his father murmured to himself right before he shut the door behind him, the lock clicking, and Crowley had successfully avoided spending another birthday staring at a cross or being sprayed with holy water.)

* * *

Their new gardener was a middle-aged woman with long brown hair and kind eyes, a different flower in her hair every day and the tips of her fingernails always dirty from the soil.

Crowley would hide in his secret hiding places all around their property, waiting for her to walk by so he could see the flower more clearly. He'd draw them (terribly, of course) in his little notebook, marking the date.

After a few days, he finally stopped hiding and began to purposefully walk by where she was working. She would look up when she heard the steps, smiling broadly at Crowley and giving him a little wave each time. Crowley would divert his eyes quickly, speeding up and walking straight back into the house.

It took a few weeks before he finally waved back one day, and the woman smiled so brightly that Crowley's head twitched to the side, tempted to turn around to check if perhaps she'd been waving to someone else. He bolted back to the house. 

" _You were just like a cat_ ," she'd tell him later, smiling warmly. " _All careful and distrusting, testing me. Making sure I was a friend. Weren't you, sweet boy?_ "

And just like a cat, curiosity got the better of him one sunny day when he finally walked over to the lady who was kneeling in front of a patch of flowers. But the curiosity didn't kill the cat - in fact, it would turn out to be one of the best ideas the cat ever had. 

Miss only came every other day, sometimes even less often, but Crowley spent every possible moment glued to her side.

Sometimes he would sit next to her as she replanted flowers, watching in silence as her gentle hands handled them with such care, holding them up for Crowley to look at the exposed roots, saying things like 'oh, look at our poor friend, he could certainly do with a little more space' and asking Crowley to pick the new pots. ' _Ah, did you hear that? I think it just said 'thank you' in Plantonese!'_ Of course Crowley knew plants couldn't really do anything of the sort, and he didn't understand why Miss always treated them with such care. He wondered what she would do if Crowley suddenly pulled off all it's gentle little green leaves and starved it of the sun, or if he tore off it's fragile roots so it wouldn't be able to drink. Perhaps she would cry and scream the way his cousin Annie had when he pulled off the wings of a butterfly she'd caught, or perhaps she would drag him to his room by his hair like his mother had when he cut up her favourite dress).

Sometimes they would spend hours kneeling in the dirt, picking snails off of salads and lettuce heads, _gently_ transferring them into a large bucket which they then carried off into the woods. They sat with their backs against a tree, eating sandwiches and watching the snails slowly climb their way out. ' _Look, Crowley, last one. Oh, you really took your sweet time, didn't you, Brother Snail? Ah but we mustn't blame him, perhaps he's an old man!' (_ Crowley wanted to stomp it with his feet as hard as he could, to hear it's fragile shell go _CRACKcrackcrack_ and see if the slimy thing could still crawl after. But he liked spending time with Miss and didn't think she would appreciate that very much at all.) _  
_

* * *

Crowley's ninth birthday was the best day of his life.

Crowley had given up in the middle of his evening prayers the night before in favor of laying on his back on the bed and staring at the ceiling unmovingly, swimming around in the pool of thoughts in his head, letting them grab at him and pull him in any direction. It must have been nearly midnight when he sat up on the bed with a single idea in his head.

He knew what he wanted for his birthday.

Crowley jumped off the bed and walked over to the mirror. His hair was freshly dyed, same shade of brown as his father's, and green contacts were still in his eyes. 

"Plea _sss_ e, father, could I-"

He stopped, frowning at himself. No, no, not right.

He opened his eyes wide and pinched the skin under his eyes, pulling down hard. He stared unblinkingly until his eyes started turning red and water gathered over and around them.

"Pleasse, father," he tried again, blinking finally, and a drop ran down his cheek.

Crowley ran downstairs and to the door in the living room that led to his father's study. He pressed the little bell that made no sound and we waited patiently, barely blinking in the several long minutes it took for the door to finally open. His father, shocked and confused by his son's sudden visible distress, stood and listened patiently as Crowley quickly explained what he wanted for his birthday - for Miss to become his new nanny.

Crowley _hated_ his nannies - he'd known since he was six that they were really just therapists and the old men never tried very hard to hide it. And they were _boring_ and Crowley _hated_ them, and Miss was his _friend_ and if he could spend so much more time with her it would be the best thing in the world, and he would behave perfectly forever if his father would just grant him this one birthday wish, he didn't even want a party or presents or anything at all. ' _Please father, please!_ '

Incredibly, his father promised to think about it, and Crowley could barely fall asleep from the excitement. 

. . .

Crowley sat at the top of the stairs where he couldn't be spotted by the people that were currently talking loudly in the living room.

"He's a nine year old boy, not a mastermind manipulator." He could barely recognize Miss' voice, it was so different from when she spoke to him or- anyone, really.

"Superficial charm and the generally polished outward surface of those with psychopathic traits can mask the emotionally devoid or deviant aspects of a psychopathic individual. _Even_ this early." The voice of the current 'nanny' man.

"And you are dismissing _genuine_ expressions of regret, of love-"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I will not have a _gardener_ lecture me on-"

"Oh for Christ's sa- _love_!" his father's deep voice roared, interrupting the other man. " _Love_! Really! You've known this boy for barely a year and you- well. Please. Do share with us, ma'am. When was it that my son has expressed _love_ , then? Perhaps _love_ had been the reason we had to throw out a £300k carpet because he'd gone and painted it red with the insides of a damned rat?!" 

Wasn't all red, Crowley remembered. The stomach was soft and squishy and broke easily when Crowley pressed a finger against it, and the insides were a bright green mushy paste that spread smoothly over the carpet like pea hummus on bread.

"Perhaps we had to find a new kindergarten for him because all of the other children were too frightened of his _love_? Was his teacher rushed to the hospital last year due to his _love_ , and not because he'd poured _bloody rat poison_ into her coffee? _Well_?!"

They were all quiet for a while - his father had that effect on people.

"Well," said Miss finally. "I can't speak for the rest of the incidents because I wasn't around yet but have you ever asked him why he did that to his teacher?"

"Of course I bloody well have! And everything that came out of his mouth was a lie!"

That was true. Crowley couldn't remember the last time he was truthful with his father.

"But let me guess," he continued. "Whatever he told _you_ was the truth, was it, ma'am?"

"Perhaps you can tell me that, sir. I _have_ been wondering ever since where in the world an eight-year-old boy could possibly have heard the words ' _Jewish rat'_ to describe his teacher?"

There was a long silence before his nanny spoke again, his voice a shade less authoritative than before.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I'm sure you are very good at your job, and it's clear to me that- that you love this boy. But I think you're simply _refusing_ to acknowledge the alarming degree of psychopathic traits that this child has been displaying almost from birth, and you're not going to cure him with but unconditional love."

"Ah, I suppose you've tested that hypothesis, have you, doctor? A privately funded double-blind clinical study of the effectiveness of _unconditional love_?" she said with a mean tone. "How will he ever know love if it isn't _shown_ to him?"

"Of course it must be shown to him, but not in the hopes that he will actually _experience_ it. That's not how it works, not with a child with this level of hypo-arousal, apathy, low emotional responses. He has to realize what he can _gain_ by mimicking good behavior, and _that_ will be his incentive. But it needs to be controlled by a professional, someone who understands all his psychopathy entails, and who knows how to recognize when they're being purposefully misled and lied to."

"But not someone who can recognize his love? Someone who can _return_ it?"

. . .

"I'm _sssss_ orry I got you in trouble," Crowley said without noticing he was smiling. He would see Miss _every day_ now.

"That's very kind of you to say, Crowley, thank you," she smiled. "But _I'm_ not the one who's in trouble. _You_ are."

Crowley's smile fell.

"You've gone and gotten yourself the _strictest_ nanny in the _world_!" she exclaimed, raising her chin and pressing her lips together in mock seriousness.

Crowley's mouth twisted into a smile as he watched her with wide eyes.

"Why, I'll have you scraping the floors and shining silver all day long!"

Crowley made a sound like an abrupt laugh, a bubbling feeling deep in his stomach as he watched Miss dramatically wave her arms around with a twinkle in her eye.

"That's right, young man! No more running around the house and eating cookies every day!"

She was smiling now, so bright and wide, and when she opened her arms, Crowley ran and crushed into her.

"Ah, and my poor garden. Who will take care of it now that I will be so busy loving you every day?"

* * *

"It made me quite sad to see that cat today. It's sad when someone dies, isn't it? I think it's much better when they're alive and happy and they can play outside in the sun and have lots of dessert for dinner and things like that. Don't you think so?"

(She had found him earlier that day poking at a dead cat with two short sticks, tinkering with it's insides. Crowley almost thought she wouldn't mention it again.)

"Would it be okay if I asked you some questions about what you were doing?"

Crowley kept eating, his eyes stubbornly on his plate. He shrugged.

"Did you find her by the side of the road? Perhaps... a car had hit poor Sister Cat?" she asked hopefully, but Crowley just kept moving the food around his plate, avoiding her gaze.

"Where did you find her then? Can you tell me?" she pressed but Crowley kept staring at his plate, saying nothing.

"It's okay, darling. Whatever happened, you can tell me. Anything at all," she said kindly. "Did you hurt her?"

Crowley dropped his head lower, turning a little to the side and away from her gaze. Then a tiny nod.

"How did that make you feel? Good? Happy?"

The boy shrugged and poked at the beans on his plate.

"Hmm. Were you just curious?"

He thought for a bit, then nodded.

"What were you curious about?"

She sounded sad. The fork scraped against the plate loudly and Crowley tried to repeat the motion, pressing the fork down hard as he dragged it over the porcelain.

"It's alright, I'm not angry with you. I'm just sad for Sister Cat," she said, apparently unwilling to accept the screeching sounds for an answer. "It doesn't make you sad?"

Crowley curled in on himself even more, refusing to answer.

"We really need to talk about this, my dear," she said sadly. "You hurt someone very badly. So much we can't ever fix it."

Crowley's hand tightened around the fork. "You only care about everyone el _sssss_ e," he hissed.

"Do you really think that?"

"I _know_ it! You _hate_ me!"

"That's not true at all, Crowley. I love you with all my heart."

"No!" he screamed, slamming the fork against the table. She jumped in her seat and his lip began to tremble. "You hate me, you _hate_ me!"

"Are you saying that to hurt me or do you really mean it?" she asked then and his eyes quickly darted to her, searching her face.

She sighed and pulled her chair back from the table. "Come here, you precious boy," she said, patting her knees with a kind smile and Crowley immediately shot up from his seat, stumbling to her side of the table and sitting in her lap, wrapping his arms around her tight as a coil in case she changed her mind.

She wrapped her arms around him in turn. "Can you feel how I love you?" she said into his hair and Crowley buried his head into her sweater.

"It's okay if you don't feel sad about Sister Cat. It's not your fault how you feel, my sweet child, not at all," she murmured soothingly. "But you can't ever ever hurt your Brothers and Sisters, Crowley. Even if you're curious, even if you want to. That's a _rule_ , an important one. Much, _much_ more important than brushing your teeth every night or checking if the soil is dry before watering. It's one of _the most_ important rules of all. Will you promise me that you'll always try your best to follow it?"

"I promissse," he said immediately and closed his eyes, fisting her shirt in his hands.

. . .

Promises were one of Crowley's favorite things. They were like _magic_. All you had to do was _say the words_ (in a very particular way, but Crowley was a quick learner) and people would think you had no choice but to keep them. It was so _silly,_ Crowley couldn't believe it even worked on adults. Of course it stopped working once they realized what a terrible track record he had when it came to promises. Miss knew it well, so he used them sparingly with her and even tried his best to convince himself he really was bound by some sort of magic and forced to keep them. And who knew, maybe _some_ promises really were magic.  
  


* * *

Crowley stood in front of the cage, watching the large turkey. It took several minutes for it to calm down and stop producing the screaming noises, seemingly giving up and accepting it's fate of being stared at.

"Hello," said Crowley, feeling stupid. "My name's Crowley."

It ruffled it's wings a little at that but made no other recognizable signs of comprehension.

Tomorrow when the butcher comes, the bird will squawk loudly and flap it's wings pointlessly and try to get away, Crowley thought, but the butcher was a large man who would easily subdue the fattened bird. How will he kill it? With a knife? A twist of the neck? Crowley had never hurt anything this big. Wasn't allowed to hurt much of anything anymore really, not since Miss had made him promise. She even looked so incredibly sad and disappointed when she saw him cut a worm in half with a sharp rock (he didn't _know_ worms counted) and he never took another risk since.

('Look, Crowley, can you see him?' she would always say so urgently, pointing at some animal they had come across. 'Look at what they are doing or what is happening to them and try to remember how it feels when those things happen to you.')

He suddenly slammed his hands against the cage, rattling it and causing the turkey to jerk and cry out in fear. He watched with wide eyes as the bird tried to squeeze itself through the bars on the other side of the cage.

"Oh, sweet boy, just who I was looking for!"

Crowley jumped, a momentary feeling of guilt washing over him. "G-Good morning, Miss."

"Oh my, and just who might this handsome fellow be?" she exclaimed while keeping her voice soft. "Why, if it isn't Brother Turkey! How lovely to meet you, dear friend," she turned her joyous smile to Crowley, then back at the cage. "Don't worry, Crowley and I are your friends. Nothing to be scared of."

"I ssscared him," Crowley said quickly, then swallowed nervously. "On purpose."

"Oh. Would you like to try and apologize to him?"

Crowley looked at her, trying to decipher what was expected of him. He nodded then and she motioned for him to walk closer to the cage.

"Um, B-Brother Turkey," Crowley started, clasping his hands in front of him instinctively, like in prayer. "I'm sssorry for... for making you feel bad."

His eyes darted to her, questioning.

"Don't look at me, Crowley, it's not me you're apologizing to," she said sternly.

He turned back quickly, a regretful look spreading over his face on reflex as he registered the disappointed tone.

"I didn't mean to be quite so harsh, darling, I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "Look at him, Crowley. Can you see him?"

Crowley stared at it hard, but it wouldn't look back. It was still pressed against the other side of the cage, squawking dumbly and not acknowledging him. Nobody's going to ask the butcher to stand here and _see_ the stupid bird tomorrow, Crowley thought angrily.

"No. It's just a _ssss_ tupid bird," he said unkindly, crossing his arms. "This is childish! It doesn't _understand_ us!"

The fact that she couldn't hide the disappointment only made him more angry. She moved then, walking a few feet to a sack nearby, grabbing a fistful of grains. She walked over to the cage in a soft, nonthreatening way that made Crowley's anger and frustration melt away almost completely, and she sat down next to where Crowley was standing. She extended her hand through the bars and opened her palm.

"Sorry you had a bit of a scare earlier, my friend. But a snack always makes everything better, in my opinion."

She waited patiently, shaking her hand every now and then to make a few grains fall and make a sound that was probably tempting for the bird. It finally made it's way over slowly, standing as far away as it could while still being able to reach her hand and peck at a few grains.

Miss smiled. "See? Brother Turkey isn't stupid at all, he's quite smart. He just doesn't understand our language, he doesn't know the words. I gave him a snack to say 'I'm your friend'."

Miss slowly dropped her hand lower and let the grains seep between her fingers. She removed her hand and the bird hurried closer, pecking at the grains in earnest. She wiped her hand against her pants and motioned for Crowley to sit down.

"Crowley, I know you're a big boy now. Getting too old for my silliness, aren't you?"

Crowley shook his head vehemently.

"Of course he doesn't understand what the word 'sorry' means, or 'I'm your friend' or any of that. But when you really believe what you are saying, when you really _feel_ it, then he will feel it too. You can't just say the words, you have to _mean_ them."

"Look, Crowley," she said then, turning to point at the turkey. "What do you see? Can you see him?" _  
_

"Good," Crowley said without thinking. "I- he's happy. He's- enjoying the food," he added, concentrating on the bird. He could feel that pleasure reflected in himself, and in the moment the bird finally turned it's head, alien eye looking straight into Crowley's own, he suddenly knew what Miss had meant this entire time. He could see him - could _see_ Brother Turkey, that _real_ thing behind the meaty and feathery shell, the thing that was _alive_ , the thing that made it not an 'it' but a 'them', a them who had an 'I', like Crowley.

It only lasted for a moment - long enough for Crowley to open his mouth and say 'sorry' suddenly and without realizing it, then the moment was gone, leaving only a confused frown on Crowley's face and a strange lingering feeling.

"Oh, sweet boy," she said with a happy sigh, witnessing the unmistakably _sincere_ apology, and she leaned froward to wrap her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. There had been a shift in Crowley in that moment before he had apologized to the bird, one that was barely visible but she had noticed it immediately - a sudden gentleness to his demeanor, like there was kindness behind his intentions. " _I see you_ , Crowley," she said to him, holding his face between her hands and pressing their noses together in that gentle way of hers and Crowley stared back into her eyes. "I see you and you're absolutely _wonderful_ , my beautiful, precious, golden-eyed boy," she ruffled his hair and her heart was full of love when he gave her a shy smile. Not as sincere anymore, but she smiled back.

" _Now_ ," she said, standing up and dusting off her pants. "What do you say we sneak Brother Turkey out of here and make everyone eat plain mashed potatoes and peas tomorrow instead?"

. . .

Crowley's mother broke their most expensive set of plates the next day in her uncontrollable rage and some of the family members that had come over for the feast seemed so terribly bothered and disappointed that they returned to their cars and left. Crowley sat at a table with a few of his cousins, all happily shoving mashed potatoes into their mouths, and Crowley thought eating something as awful as peas was worth it in exchange for Brother Turkey sleeping safe and sound in Miss' home instead of being shoved into the mouths of his stupid cousins, and if it meant he had another excuse to visit her house again, well, that was a good thing too.

* * *

It was a hot summer day, and they were resting comfortably in the shade, drinking lemonade Crowley had made to apologize for a bad thing he had done a few days before. It was particularly bad, Crowley guessed, because the look she had given him that day was one he'd never seen before, and one he didn't much enjoy thinking about it either. He was hoping the lemonade would be enough for her to forgive him like she always did.

"Crowley, do you think you could go get us both another glass?" she asked and Crowley nodded hard, glad she finally broke the silence, stumbling to his feet and walking to the house to pour her another glass of the cool lemonade, with a new straw and everything, one that matched the color of that day's flower, and when she gave him a small smile he felt his heart beam.

"Do you remember what I told you last time?" she asked after a while, when she was done with her drink.

"Lots of things, Miss, you talk a lot," he teased her. Crowley had gotten better at telling jokes and being funny (in an acceptable way) and used it often to his advantage. People were more likely to forgive you or stop asking you questions or do what you want if you made them laugh or smile first. Miss didn't particularly care for this new skill of his.

"Hmm," she said without smiling, and turned to watch the view before them. 

Crowley held the glass with both hands and sipped at his drink slowly to stall for time. 

"Oh are you done with your lemonade? There's more, I can go get it!" When she didn't move to hand him her empty glass, he turned away again and leaned back into his chair, scratching at the glass with his thumb. "Aren't we going to the museum today, Miss? You _promisssed_ ," he tried, but still she remained silent, staring ahead stubbornly. "I fell yesterday," he said, pointing at the large band-aid above his knee. "I wanted to put thosse healing leaves on it but I forgot where they grow, can we-"

"Crowley," she said finally, turning to look at him. Crowley recognized the look because he'd seen it on his mother so many times before. Was Miss seeing what his mother saw when she looked at him? He turned away quickly and squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively trying to hide his evil eyes.

"Oh sweetheart," she said, gently, but not as gently as she used to. The older Crowley got, the more her love for him dimmed. The more she knew him, the less she loved him. The more desperately he tried to grab onto her, the more quickly and surely she slipped away. "Will you look at me, dear?"

He opened his eyes but kept them glued on the glass he was cradling in his lap. He squeezed hard with both hands, hoping it would break.

"I wish I understood why you did what you did, Crowley. I try so hard to understand you, and I know you try hard too, to understand me."

Crowley squeezed even harder, his skin white against the glass.

"And I'm not leaving because of anything you did. I need you to remember that. I-"

Crowley suddenly raised his hand and hurled the glass, and it landed on a rock, shattering. He stared at the shards shining in the sun.

They sat in silence for a few moments before she moved to put on her shoes and got up without a word, walking over to the scene of the crime.

When she went to kneel down, Crowley suddenly leaped out of his chair, running towards her as fast as he could and slammed against her, knocking her over. She let out a scream, and Crowley took a step back. She turned around swiftly to look at the boy.

He watched with wide amber eyes as Miss' face twisted into an expression he didn't understand. She was cradling her left hand which had sustained most of the damage - little cuts and beads of blood were scattered over her entire palm and forearm, mixed in with dirt and bits of grass, and an especially nasty looking piece of broken glass was sticking out of the meat of her forearm in a way that made Crowley experience that particularly pleasant feeling he only ever experienced when he did things he wasn't supposed to do. Blood was almost pouring out from around it.

"Crowley," he heard a voice say and he blinked. "Crowley, do you understand that you've hurt me quite badly?"

Crowley watched the strange look on her face. Nodded.

"You have to- you have to run and get help, Crowley. As- as fast as you can. Can you do that?"

He reached towards her then, fingers nearly brushing the bloodied piece of glass before she snatched it away and yelled his name so loudly (he'd never ever heard her yell before) that he snapped out of it and started sprinting towards the house without another word of instruction from her.

. . .

She forgave him, always did, but she still left.

* * *

_"Stop it with that miserable woman! She'd_ dead _, didn't I tell you? Cancer ate up all her insides, perhaps she'd gone and spent too much time around a devil child!"_

* * *

"You're old enough to do this on your own now, Crowley. Watch," his mother said, turning to the horse. "Down," she said in a strong voice. "Down!" she repeated, raising the whip for the horse to see, and it lowered itself clumsily to kneel on it's front legs.

His mother smiled, handing the whip to Crowley. "Now you try," she said, pushing him towards the horse who struggled to get back up.

Crowley walked closer and stared at it. ( _What do you see? Can you see him?)_ The horse stared back, it's eyes unreadable. He looked down at the whip in his hand.

"Brother Horssse," Crowley tried, whispering. (' _Brother Horse! Shall we go for a walk or would you prefer to keep grazing?_ ') 

"Get a move on!" he heard his mother call out from behind him.

"I h-have to- can I-?" he stammered. (' _Would you mind terribly if this young man here sat on your back? Oh, he's light as a feather, it won't be a bother at all. What do you think, friend?_ ')

"You have to get down." (' _I think he doesn't mind. Oh, aren't we lucky to have such a kind friend, Crowley?_ ') 

The horse stared at him, no recognition in it's eyes, and Crowley felt a spark of anger as his hand tightened around the whip - that hateful thing she could never stand to even look at. (' _Careful - we must always be careful not to hurt our friend, even by accident!'_ ) 

"Down," he said, unconvincingly, and the horse didn't move. (' _When you really_ feel _it, then he will feel it too. You can't just say the words, you have to_ mean _it._ ')

"D-Down!" he repeated with more force. He raised his hand, mimicking his mother's threatening body language.

The horse finally reacted, shuffling backwards.

" _Down_!" Crowley repeated again and the horse finally obeyed, dropping to it's front knees, and Crowley stood as if paralyzed, staring at the kneeling horse with wide eyes.

His mother watched from a few feet away, her arms crossed.

"What in the bloody hell are you waiting for? Climb on it, you stupid boy!" she called out. _Couldn't do a single thing right, could he, her son, not a single bloody thing. Had to make everything difficult_. She watched with a frown as he continued to stand there in front of the horse, unmoving, whip still raised high.

Her eyes widened the first time the whip came down over the horse's back, words stuck in her throat as the horse bellowed. The whip came down two more times before she reacted, and she screamed out Crowley's name. He didn't seem to hear her at all, striking at the restrained animal without pause. It took real strength to pull him away from the howling horse.

. . .

That day Crowley met a little brown-eyed girl that he was certain was an angel sent by Miss to punish him for breaking the most important rule.


	13. A Psychopath In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Az/Crowley park scene continues in the end, dw :) 
> 
> Comments super welcome as always.

2007

Here's the thing about psychopaths in love. They don't exist.

Crowley exists, and he's in love. Oh, he is so, so in love. According to _Do You Love Him?_ , 3-minute pop quiz from a respectable girls' magazine, he's 29 points out of 30 in love.

 _Do you miss him as soon as he leaves?_ Yes. _Do you find yourself staring at him?_ Oh yes. _Do you feel a rush or high when you think of him?_ Definitely yes.

 _If you were there when he overdosed on heroin in a hotel room you paid for with your credit card, would you cut his stomach open with a dull kitchen knife and slide your hand into him up to your elbow and lay next to him like that for hours?_ Probably yes.

* * *

According to his eleventh therapist, Crowley was incapable of feeling shame or regret.

('It's not regret you're feeling. You just don't like the consequences of your actions.' Yeah, what the hell else was regret _supposed_ to feel like?)

But Crowley could feel shame and regret. He could. He doesn't think Satan himself could've grown up living with his mother and not develop the ability to feel shame, and he was frankly getting a bit tired of people telling him how he felt and who he was.

Yes, he often had trouble predicting _which_ actions he'd end up regretting, or judging how certain things he did would affect others, but it was just... It was just _hard_. It was just so, so difficult, and he couldn't for the life of him understand how making these predictions, these bloody prophesies, came so _easily_ to other people.

'How _could_ you?!' they'd scream at him accusingly throughout his life, and Crowley never knew how to answer that. Still doesn't. 'How could he'? He just... _could_. How could _they,_ was what Crowley really wanted to know. How could they take everyone into account so skillfully, how could they _simultaneously_ consider their own experiences and thoughts and feelings, and those of someone else? How could they _want_ and _need_ and at the very same time concern themselves with what others wanted and needed? Crowley found that to be an impossible task more often than not. He could feel regret, he _could_ , he was capable of it, just not... immediately, not like other people, and usually not for the same reasons.

And of course there was also the fact that other people didn't feel that white flash of pleasure that Crowley so often experienced when he hurt someone. Anathema seemed utterly incapable of comprehending how anyone could feel pleasure when doing some of the things Crowley did much in the same way that Crowley was unable to understand how she _didn't_ feel this way. She - and most everyone else - didn't know the incredibly peaceful feeling of joy that could radiate through his entire body when he let himself indulge in something he wanted and needed, like a tightly wound coil finally allowed to spring open. He felt alive. He felt _connected_ to another living being, especially when that living being was someone... special.

When he chased that feeling, he often had no regard for the other in that moment, no interest in their experience at all unless it served to amplify his rush, and so he would occasionally end up doing things that he later regretted. That sort of stuff... happens, right? You lash out in anger or fear or just plain malice, then you regret it later after you've looked at it more clearly and thought it over. And then people forgive you, because it was just an impulse, it doesn't define you, that's not who you really are. Action-regret- **forgiveness**.

Crowley's impulses were too heinous to be forgiven, no matter the amount of regret. It didn't work like that for someone like him: he wasn't a good person who had made a mistake. He was just... well, evil. Psychologists would cringe in distaste at the word but Crowley was painfully familiar with both worlds, and he knew that no matter how many bloody pages long his diagnosis was, no matter how objectively and scientifically they tried to explain and describe it, it was all nothing but so many words for 'evil'. And... sure, yeah. Maybe. Maybe he was. Crowley was perfectly capable of admitting that it was not very likely that _he_ was the one who was right, and the rest of the world was wrong. (' _Grandiose sense of self-worth_ ' was one of the few items on the _Hare Psychopathy Checklist_ that helped lower his overall score enough for him to not 'officially' quality as a psychopath.) 

'You do know how fucking scary that sounds?' Anathema asked him one night when they were getting drunk in his father's cabin and he tried his best to describe the way his mind works. Was it? Scary? The way that he experienced pleasure and love? Yes, he supposed, if he really thought about it, he could understand why it was scary. But he didn't _intend_ for it to be. Was it really his fault if other people found it scary? Surely no one else got to pick and choose what made them feel good either?

And not only could he not be forgiven, he also could never become a good person or someone worthy of real love.

Crowley was, in a manner of speaking, more or less missing parts of the brain you apparently needed to qualify as a good person (aka he was evil). This of course meant that any effort he put into being a good person was only an act. Not _good_ , just an imitation of it. He didn't 'seek happiness', he 'manipulated to get what he wanted'. He didn't 'become a better person', he 'adapted' - you know, like a virus or whatever fucking slime Star Trek monster came to mind when you heard the word being used to describe you. Everything was a trick, a deception, all of it, his entire existence a mistake, a mutation gone wrong, and they would look at him like he was... hollow, like he wasn't there. A turkey in a cage.

* * *

Here's the hilarious part.

He had never hurt Josh. Not once. Never went too far, never betrayed him, never snapped at his friends when they got too close, never even said a cruel word. He worked hard every moment they were together, to be good- no, _perfect_ for his love. Absolutely any way he wanted or needed him to be, Crowley would be it.

It took so much concentration to never slip that he'd collapse on his bed from exhaustion every night, finally able to relax his head, relax his bloody face muscles from the countless expressions he had to twist them into. It was exhausting, always watching and waiting for the subtle clues that often made little sense to Crowley, then figuring out how he was supposed to react fast enough so that nothing seemed... off. Because sometimes even his best wasn't good enough - people would still get a 'gut feeling', that deep, sickly twist of your stomach when there was just something wrong with a person but you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

Crowley had realized at a young age just how many alarms he set off in people's heads when he wasn't being careful, even when he had no ill intentions. It was like... like they could _smell_ him. Was it his fault that he had to charm and lie and con and manipulate for someone to love him? Was that _his_ failure? What would you do if everyone kept their distance and wrinkled their noses at you, no matter how hard you tried to scrub your body clean? Wouldn't you douse yourself in perfume and stuff your pockets full of little tree car fresheners in hopes that someone would miss the rotting stench underneath and allow you to approach?

And so he learned early on that to be wanted, to be loved, he had to act a certain way. Had to think before responding - what he really thought or felt was rarely the right choice of words or course of action. (When someone tells you their grandmother is in the hospital, you can't respond the same as when they tell you about what they had for lunch. Your face has to do a thing, and you have to go 'Oh no, that's awful', and 'I'm so sorry to hear that', and 'Is there anything I can do?', and put a hand on their shoulder and squeeze gently or draw circles on their back.) He was good at that sort of thing now. And he could pretend forever for his love, he would pretend his entire life if it meant he could be with him.

But in the end, it just... didn't matter. His love didn't leave him because he slipped. He didn't leave because of anything Crowley had done or said. He left because of _Google_.

Because he'd overheard a conversation between him and Anathema and then decided to let the fucking internet tell him who Crowley really was. And all of Crowley's efforts suddenly meant _nothing_.

They were laying on a hotel bed that day, facing each other, Crowley's hand caressing his face the way he knew his love liked. Josh would never say it out loud, but he enjoyed this part more than anything, more than the sex. And Crowley gave it to him, because Crowley gave him anything he wanted and more. Anathema once called their relationship Crowley's longest and most elaborate con yet, but there was no agenda. Crowley was simply in love. But it didn't matter, none of it.

"This isn't who you really are."

Crowley frowned, his hand stilling for a moment, then moving to push a stand of hair from his love's face. "What do you mean?"

"You're someone else entirely and I have no idea who, do I? You've been pretending since the day we met."

Crowley could suddenly sense something was terribly, terribly wrong. He swallowed down the panic that was threatening to overcome him.

"What are you talking about? Pretending how? Where's- where's this coming from, love?"

As it turns out, other people are broken too. Other people are searching for love just as desperately as Crowley, walking as close to the edge as him.

And when you're a broken young thing, abandoned at birth and raised on the streets because it was better than any place you were sent to, and a handsome, charming, wealthy young man who thinks you're the most precious and special thing he's ever seen gives you anything you ever ask for... well, you might take it a little hard when you eventually learn that man is a psychopath.

"I heard you and Anathema talking. I know what you are, Crowley," Josh said solemnly, still looking into his eyes.

Crowley's face twitched and he pulled his hand away. "And what am I?"

Josh stared at him for a few moments before looking away. "A... a psychopath," he mumbled, suddenly sounding unsure and feeling a little silly upon uttering the word. He still couldn't see it when he looked at him. But... he had read too many warning stories on forums and blogs. No, it was an illusion.

Crowley stared before huffing out a laugh. "That right?"

"Yeah, that's right, I've-" Josh pushed himself up from the bed then, half expecting Crowley to stop him, but the redhead remained completely still, only following him with his eyes that were now sharp and alert. "I've read all about it. It's all I've been doing these past three days. None of your shit is gonna work on me anymore."

"My shit," Crowley repeated, daring to look offended and confused, and Josh wanted to cry. He just wanted Crowley to drop the act already, to admit it and get it over with. He had already more or less come to terms with it in the past few days, gone through shock, denial, anger and all those bloody steps that lead to acceptance. Acceptance that Josh was still a piece of shit, still a used up dirty thing that no one worth anything could ever want. He just wanted to see it with his own eyes.

He wasn't even angry with Crowley, he was angry with himself, damn fool, thinking someone as amazing as that could ever love _him_. Of course, of course the man of his dreams, his white knight in shining armor turned out to be a _fucking psychopath_ , Jack the Ripper or some shit, hunting the streets of London for unwanted whores nobody would miss. He didn't even want to know what Crowley was getting out of it or what his endgame was, not after all the stories he had read.

"Yeah. None of it is real, right? You don't- you never loved me at all. Not capable of it, all you can do is lie and pretend, and- and try to manipulate me to- to-"

"To what?" Crowley asked with raised eyebrows.

"I don't know! To do some twisted psycho shit with me!" Josh yelled, frustrated and angry that Crowley was still trying to confuse him. Crowley's mouth twitched in annoyance and he finally moved to push himself upright. Josh had to remind himself to be afraid, because Crowley was still more or less the same as always, still acting like the man Josh had fallen in love with.

"Right, yeah, _psycho shit_ like giving you everything you've ever wanted? That sort of thing?" Crowley asked and Josh could feel the nastiness behind the words. "Taking you off the street, caring for you, putting you through rehab, making you happy? Treating you any way you want to be treated? Indulging your every bloody whim, Josh?"

 _Ahh okay, there we go,_ Josh thought, smiling coldly, _lay it on me, play on all my insecurities now that you've been backed into a corner. Show your true nature, show me what kind of a monster it takes to love a worthless thing like me._

"Yeah, worked out well for you, didn't it?" Josh spit back accusingly. "Made me into a trustworthy, naive, _stupid_ fucking _asshole_ who actually believed it was _real_. Did you get off on it? Watching me make a fool of myself, thinking someone like- like _that_ could ever love _me_ or want-"

"I _do_ love you!" Crowley cried.

"You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better! That- that the only person to ever tell me they loved me is a fucking _psycho_!"

"Stop _saying that_ ," Crowley hissed, then immediately deflated when Josh suddenly recoiled, forcing himself to calm down and speak softly, the way he usually spoke to his love. "Wh- what's gotten into you, love? Please I... I don't understand... I've been trying so hard, I've been so good to you, haven't been selfish once, not _once_ , Josh, have I? Never took _anything_ for myself-"

"Shut up, shut _up_!" Josh slammed his fists against the mattress. "Do you think I can't see what you're doing? God you're so... Crowley you're so _fucked up_ , Jesus fucking- I can _see_ it now- how- how did I not-"

"Don't say that, don't say that, please, please my love," Crowley's hands darted out and he tried to wrap himself around Josh's arm like a child. "I swear I love you, I swear it. Please, please stop this-"

Crowley was suddenly pushed hard and sent flying back, landing on his back. Josh stumbled off the bed, never turning his back on Crowley as he fished for his phone in his coat pocket, then began reading off the screen out loud, phone shaking in his trembling hands. "' _When a psychopath appears to be friendly or to have an emotional connection one should not be fooled.'"_ He swallowed nervously, eyes darting towards Crowley before continuing. _"'They are the social snakes in the grass that slither and smile their way in to your life and emotions. They feel no empathy, and only care about themselves_.'”

Crowley watched him silently with an unreadable expression and Josh held his gaze. Then Crowley closed his eyes with an exhale, and let his head fall back against the bed.

"Fine."

"Fine what?"

"Fine, you win, I'm a _snake in the grass,_ " Crowley sneered, fearing for a moment he might start crying from the humiliation of it all and the horror of the fact that his love would never look at him the same way, never again, but the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

"And you... don't feel empathy? Don't care about anyone?"

Crowley clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling.

"So it's true. You- you never loved me."

He rolled his eyes. "Was this not enough drama for you, Josh? Gotta drag it out like always?" Crowley asked with a cruelty he didn't really feel, but words just poured out of him. "Been fucked by a hundred dirty old men and still you're so needy and desperate for attention. Someone finally comes along to pick you out of the gutter and of course _this_ is what you do. _Itching_ to get back on the corner. Was the _psychopath_ too gentle with you?"

The room was silent when Crowley finally forced himself to shut his mouth. He had stared at the ceiling throughout that entire trainwreck, and didn't plan on taking his eyes off it any time soon. He didn't particularly want to know what Josh's face looked like upon witnessing the man of his dreams pretty much _die_ \- or, no, worse than that, _disappear_ before his eyes. Erased from existence and replaced with... whatever Crowley really was.

"If you're gonna leave, just leave."

\- - -

Josh did leave. He went and locked himself into the bathroom and never walked out again.

* * *

They had never locked the hotel room door that day. The cleaning lady entered but stopped just around the corner upon hearing loud grunting noises, then left hurriedly. Lucky, very lucky, you might think. But Crowley would have preferred that fate over what ended up happening.

The second and last person to enter uninvited that night was Anathema. The noises didn't stop her.

The last thing Anathema remembers clearly is the stench, and then everything is sort of a blur. Her young friend was laid on his back on the bed, facing the ceiling, and Crowley was next to him, face buried between his lover's neck and shoulder.

And there was... red, so much red everywhere, the bed, the floor, Josh's entire body - but she could make out the white ribs through the mess where Josh's front had been carved open, almost from his neck to below his navel, and Crowley's arm was buried inside, slid into the stomach and under the rib cage, only his bony elbow sticking out from where Josh's bellybutton would have been.

Anathema vomited where she stood without even registering it, before collapsing onto her knees. She still can't remember a single thought that went through her head at that point, not even sure she had any at all, but by the time she came to, Crowley was standing beside the bed, his bloodied arm hanging by his side, deep red almost from shoulder to the tip of his fingers. She tore her eyes away - couldn't look at him without seeing the body in the corner of her eye and she couldn't, couldn't look at it, she could see- could see _inside_ -

Suddenly Crowley was stumbling towards her and she couldn't react before he was reaching at her with both hands but all she could see was the red, could _smell_ it as the air in the room moved-

" _Get away from me_!!" she shrieked, adrenaline giving her the strength she didn't know she had to jump up and back up against a wall. Crowley didn't seem to really register any of it, seemed completely dazed and in some sort of state, but stopped anyway.

At some point, Crowley must have told her that Josh had overdosed, and she would never have believed him had Josh not sent her an incredibly worrying text earlier that day.

Anathema convinced Crowley to go wash himself in the bathroom and with her heart beating like a drum in her ears, she approached Josh. To this day, she wishes she hadn't. She should have stayed there on the floor in that corner, should have just called Crowley's father and waited for whatever arrangements he made to arrive. You weren't supposed to see your friend lying on a blood soaked bed, weren't supposed to see his internal fucking organs, and most of all, you weren't supposed to see a puddle of dried cum next to his hip that your other best friend had left there.

Her hand shot up to cover her mouth and she felt her upper lip curl in disgust. She hated him. God she fucking _hated_ him, had never hated anyone so much in her life, what had she done to deserve this- this- fucking- _thing_ for a friend? What had _Josh_ done to deserve him?! God, Josh - poor, sweet, kind, troubled Josh, he was gone, gone, just a corpse now, dirtied and defiled, Crowley couldn't even- couldn't even leave him be in death- couldn't keep his fucking--

Anathema kept slamming her fists, punching and pushing until she could no longer lift her arms, and then she kicked, kept kicking until Crowley was on the floor, curled up and quiet, and she wanted to beat him into the ground so deep he would never get up again. _What's wrong with you what the fuck is wrong with you how could you do this to him you're disgusting you're disgusting how can you be so fucking disgusting you-_

And then she was too exhausted to even stand as she staggered backwards into a corner, away from the trembling figure on the ground and the motionless red mess on the bed. She slid down with her back against the wall and finally cried.

Only when there didn't seem to be a drop of water left in her body did she get up. Found a clean sheet somehow, somewhere, and went to cover Josh.

"No!" Crowley cried suddenly from where he was still laying on the floor between the bathroom door and the bed. "L-Let me, please."

Anathema wanted to wrap the sheet around Crowley and throw him into a fucking river. She looked at him with so much hatred that his eyes immediately darted away, squeezing shut as he curled in on himself.

Neither of them spoke another word as they waited for the three men that came to make the problem disappear.

* * *

Now

"Won't you please say something?" Aziraphale urged a little desperately after an impossibly long silence.

Crowley exhaled loudly. "You're about as sharp as a bloody polished marble, you are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"God, you utter and complete _knob_. Why..." Crowley let out a disbelieving laugh, turning to look at Aziraphale. " _Why_ would you do that? I mean there's- I'm never going to be able to let this go, you realize that, right? I'm... why, _why_ would you do that, why would you-" he turned away, burying his face in his hands. " _christ,_ I... I poisoned you with my- my-- I never should have put my disgusting hands on-- and now you're- you-"

"Crowley, dear, please. Please breathe with me. You're having a panic attack."

Crowley twisted and slapped the hand off his shoulder. "Don't-- of _course_ I'm bloody well having one!"

Crowley could see the future play out in his head, and it was a rare moment that he felt shame and regret, clear as day, in advance. It seemed as if their roles were suddenly reversed, and Aziraphale was the reckless bastard with no regard for consequences, and Crowley was the one thinking clearly about what the best course of action for everyone involved was. Stranger things indeed.

"I don't- I don't understand. Was I too... forward?"

Crowley collapsed back onto the bench, head turned up as he slid his hands over his face and breathed in shakily through his nose. He stayed that way for a while, allowing himself a few deep breaths as he watched the sky.

"You're gonna realize what you've done once you've sobered up," he said, not at all sounding like he was calming down. "And I'm... I... I don't know what I'll do but it's going to be something vile and depraved and- and disgusting and wrong and you- you'll want to leave me but how will I... no I can't, I can't, I won't be able to, there's no way I'll..." he trailed off, now talking to himself more than Aziraphale.

"But you haven't _done_ anything," Aziraphale reasoned, trying to keep his voice light and seemingly without worry to calm the man down. "Just... just _don't_ do it."

"Oh, brilliant, yeah, how have I never thought of that? Just _don't_ do it. Thanks, I'm cured."

Aziraphale cringed. "You don't need to be _cured_ , dear."

Crowley's shoulders shook in a humorless laugh and he let his head fall to the side to look at Aziraphale. "What do you want from me, angel?"

"Anything," the blonde man said quickly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aziraphale was perfectly aware of just how much he'd regret the words that he was beginning to spew so carelessly now, but still he couldn't stop himself. In fact it was because of it that he felt a sense of urgency to say everything and try everything before the alcohol was out of his system and he'd realize what an absolutely disastrous idea this whole thing was. He wanted to hurry up and indulge himself and not think about the consequences, and he wasn't above begging for it either. "I've never... no one's ever wanted me like you do. Or _did_. It's fine if... I mean I don't mean to presume that- that you, er, I mean, I only..." Aziraphale stuttered then swallowed hard, eyes darting away before he gathered back his courage. "Just _anything_. A-Anything at all, anything you'll give me."

Crowley looked away at that, his jaw clenching. "You really need love and attention so much you'd even take mine?"

"I don't want anyone elses."

Crowley closed his eyes. Aziraphale's impending sense of doom grew by the second, and so did his desperation to follow through with this before he came to his senses and the fear stopped him. "Let's- let's just- let's _go_. To- to... somewhere?" he finished desperately, unable to find the words. He could hear Crowley's shaky breath, could see his sharp jaw working, but the man said nothing.

Aziraphale reached out, suddenly remembering he could beg with more than just his words, and he rested his hand on Crowley's own. That turned out to be a fatal mistake, because Crowley was on his feet in a split second, suddenly three feet away from the bench, his fists clenched. "Right! This has been fun. Call me tomorrow?"

He looked like he was about to leave without so much as looking at Aziraphale, and the bartender jumped up, grabbing Crowley's wrist. "No! Please, Crowley, I..." he cried out desperately. "Don't you want--?"

Crowley tore his hand away and Aziraphale let out a surprised yelp when his own wrist was grabbed, the grip so tight Aziraphale could feel his hand numbing from the loss of blood flow in a matter of seconds. When Crowley finally looked at him, the shorter man wished he hadn't.

"What _I_ want isn't what _you_ want," he hissed, pulling Aziraphale forward so their faces were inches apart.

"You don't know what I want," Aziraphale said in a last attempt at reckless bravery, but it came out as a whine.

Crowley's grip tightened then though Aziraphale didn't think it possible, and he let out another painful hiss. He stared at his hand where the skin was bunched up from Crowley's own hand pushing against it, then his eyes darted up, pleading silently.

But Crowley's eyes seemed distant, glazed over as he stared into Aziraphale's. "This something you want?"

Aziraphale didn't say anything and suddenly the pressure was gone - only for a split second and then it was back, worse than before, fingers now bent and sharp nails pressing painfully into the soft flesh of Aziraphale's wrist. Aziraphale's face contorted in pain and he muffled a scream, instinctively trying to avoid causing a scene in public. But then he saw the look on Crowley's face, the complete lack of understanding of how much he was hurting him- or... no, worse, it was worse, Crowley understood but was simply entirely unaffected by it, and Aziraphale's eyes filled with tears. "Please," he forced himself to say.

"Please? Please what?" Crowley asked and his voice was so cruel that Aziraphale had to squeeze his eyes shut.

"P-Please let go," he managed.

"I thought I could do anything I wanted. Isn't that what you said?" he said in mocking confusion. Then he twisted his fingers, pressing and pulling even harder against the skin and Aziraphale couldn't hold back a whimper. "And what I _want_ is to see whether or not I can break your wrist with one hand. What d'you reckon, Aziraphale? Do you think I can do it? Do you think I know exactly where to press to make those brittle little bones go crack?"

Crowley began to rotate Aziraphale's wrist, barely a few degrees before Aziraphale really panicked. It felt like a dam breaking, suddenly and with a bang, as the paralyzing fear burst through - the sort of fear Aziraphale had only ever felt once before in his life.

"Nononononnoletgoletgoletgoplease-"

And finally he was free, his wrist throbbing and burning with pain as blood finally rushed through. He fell back onto the bench in shock then immediately stumbled back up when he felt Crowley towering over him.

The redhead's stare was no longer as empty and distant now as he watched his angel cradling the injured wrist and looking at Crowley with disbelief and fear. Crowley's eyes darted to the ground, quickly snuffing out the flicker of shame that threatened to erupt. He could wallow in self-hatred and pity later. With an exhale, he breathed out anything and everything that he was feeling and took a step towards Aziraphale who immediately tried to jump away, but Crowley was quicker, his hand darting out to grab Aziraphale's abused wrist.

"Look at what I did to you," he said quietly, his fingers locked around Aziraphale's wrist so that he couldn't snatch it back. "In the middle of a public park. And you want to lock yourself in a room with me?" Crowley raised his other hand to Aziraphale's face and the man flinched but was unable to move more than half a step without pulling at his painful wrist. Crowley pressed his palm against the angel's face, wiping at a tear.

The whole thing was... _funny_ , really. How hurt and betrayed his angel looked in the very moment that Crowley was doing something so selfless that he could hardly believe it himself.

"Stop panicking and listen to me," he said with as much authority as he was capable of, which was a lot. "I'm going to come crawling back. I'm going to lie and beg and deceive, I'm going to do anything I can possibly think of to get what I want, and you're going to take that idiotic, misplaced sympathy of yours and kill it dead on the spot. You're going to remember that it's all an illusion, that I'm not _real_ , that I only took on the shape of something that can fill that hole inside of you so that I can make you fill mine. Then you're going to _leave_. If I don't let you, you're going to do anything it takes and you will _leave_. Do you understand? _Nod_ if you understand, Aziraphale."

His angel only stared at him wide eyed as tears continued to fall, his lip trembling. Stupid bloody idiot with a bleeding heart too big to leave any room for a sense of self preservation.

"Was I not clear enough?" he asked after a few moments, suddenly wrapping his fingers tightly around the wrist and squeezing, and Aziraphale bellowed.

Crowley took it as a yes and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hare Psychology Checklist is a diagnostic tool used to rate a person's psychopathic or antisocial tendencies. It was developed in the 1970’s by Dr. Robert Hare, a Canadian professor and researcher renowned in criminal psychology, who has spent three decades studying the concept known as the psychopath and based partly on Hare’s work with prison inmates in Vancouver.
> 
> The Hare Psychopathy Checklist:  
> • glib and superficial charm  
> • grandiose (exaggeratedly high) estimation of self  
> • need for stimulation  
> • pathological lying  
> • cunning and manipulativeness  
> • lack of remorse or guilt  
> • shallow affect (superficial emotional responsiveness)  
> • callousness and lack of empathy  
> • parasitic lifestyle  
> • poor behavioral controls  
> • sexual promiscuity  
> • early behavior problems  
> • lack of realistic long-term goals  
> • impulsivity  
> • irresponsibility  
> • failure to accept responsibility for own actions  
> • many short-term marital relationships  
> • juvenile delinquency  
> • revocation of conditional release  
> • criminal versatility
> 
> Results:  
> A prototypical psychopath would receive a maximum score of 40, while someone with absolutely no psychopathic traits or tendencies would receive a score of zero.
> 
> A score of 30 or above qualifies a person for a diagnosis of psychopathy.
> 
> People with no criminal backgrounds normally score around 5.
> 
> Many non-psychopathic criminal offenders score around 22.


	14. Slithering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a couple of weeks after the park scene. 
> 
> "Crowley didn't look angry. He didn't really feel angry, though that probably made little difference to the trembling bloodied man before him as he struggled to breathe, his view blurry and red tinted from the blood in his eyes. No, he wasn't angry, he just wanted to erase this revolting insect from existence and scrub his angel's body clean until he reached bone."
> 
> (Thank you Arkhaniel for the prompt!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY this fic is so confusing and all over the place!
> 
> The following is the first time they've seen each other since the park - and I'm going to clear some things up and address everything that happened in the park in the next chapter! Sorry for the confusion! 
> 
> As always, pleeease leave a comment if you liked it. Or if you didn't like it. Your perspectives always help!

A shady character stumbled past where Crowley was leaning up against a wall on a poorly lit street, raising his hooded head to look around in what Crowley assumed the man thought was an inconspicuous matter, then took a sharp right into a smaller alley.

Crowley let out a long exhale before pushing himself off the wall and bending to take a peek around the corner. The man was still close enough for Crowley to see he was clutching onto something in his coat pocket, but no guessing was needed as the knife was pulled out in the next moment and immediately pointed at one of the bar workers who had just finished taking out the trash.

He recognized the bartender by the fearful expression on his face more than any other feature. _Of course_ , Crowley thought, _of course it had to be_ him _, the bloody trouble magnet of an angel._ Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he began to stalk towards the two figures, quickening his pace when he heard Aziraphale cry out. 

He surprised even himself by how calm he felt, but he suspected it was the sort you feel before a storm, and he called out to get the pair's attention.

The hooded man immediately released the smaller trembling figure and twisted around to face Crowley. Aziraphale scrambled to escape the narrow space between the brute and the wall, cradling his wounded arm as he stumbled sideways until his back hit the corner of the dead end alley. The sleeve of his shirt was already soaked in blood.

"You look like you've made a lot of stupid choices in your life but I think you'll find that this was by far your worst one."

The man's dirtied and unshaven face suddenly looked years younger as fear twisted it's features. He was still holding the knife, knuckles white around it, but something about the calmness of Crowley's voice and the look on his face as he stepped closer made the weapon seem suddenly useless.

"Did really think you could put your disgusting, grimy little hands on something like that," Crowley pointed at Aziraphale without taking his eyes off the now cowering man, "and there would be no consequences?"

The man turned to look in the direction Crowley was pointing in, as if unsure what the redhead who had appeared out of no where was referring to, and in the next moment his arm was twisted painfully. His head was slammed against the brick wall, the knife falling out of his hand and hitting the ground at the same time a loud gasp escaped Aziraphale.

With a burn that felt like his skin was being separated from his skull, the scrawny man was pulled back by his hair then slammed again against the wall face first. Once, twice, three times.

"For God's sake, Crowley!"

Crowley twisted the man around again, pressing him against the wall by his throat and leaning close to look into his eyes.

Crowley didn't look angry. He didn't really _feel_ angry, though that probably made little difference to the trembling bloodied man before him as he struggled to breathe, his view blurry and red tinted from the blood in his eyes. No, he wasn't angry, he just wanted to erase this revolting insect from existence and scrub his angel's body clean until he reached bone.

He swayed on his feet suddenly as he thought about what was probably a knife wound on Aziraphale's arm. It would leave a scar. He felt the muscles on his face twitch as he squeezed harder, his fingers digging into the sides of the man's neck, palm pushing painfully against his windpipe. Crowley raised his other hand and the man bellowed as his broken nose was pressed into his face.

"Crowley, stop it now!"

He removed his hand and leaned in closer still, anger slowly evaporating and being replaced with a wide-eyed curiosity as panicked but already weak guttural sounds escaped the bruised man, his convulsing throat almost caressing Crowley's palm. The incredible sensations were spoiled only by the stench coming off the filthy bastard, but even that only served as a reminder to Crowley that he could break his windpipe right now and nobody would really care. Society didn't want this man. He could just bash his entire body in with a rock until he was indistinguishable from a heap of mincemeat and watch as starved stray dogs fed on him.

Crowley licked his dry lips absentmindedly and pressed harder. His eyes stung as he stared unblinkingly, taking quick sharp breaths through his nose as his heart drummed in excited anticipation.

"Please stop," came the soft voice again. Crowley would not have heard it had it not been accompanied by the sudden light touch around his wrist.

He turned to the side, suddenly face to face with his angel.

"My God, Crowley, please, let him go, let him go, you're killing him, please-" The voice wasn't soft at all, it was hysterical, and the touch wasn't gentle, it was shaking him and pulling urgently.

"Angel," Crowley said, sounding dazed and a little surprised. "Angel, what is it?"

The man beneath him began to struggle desperately to draw in raspy breaths after Crowley had unintentionally loosened his grip, gasping and wheezing against his ear. Crowley cringed and twisted to face the man again with a spike of anger and disgust, fully extending his arm so that the rotting breath couldn't reach him, and finally bringing his other hand from where he was holding the man by his shoulder to join the other around his throat.

His stomach filled with butterflies when he decided to give one last press and twist. But just as his fingers went to curl, his head was suddenly caught between two warm palms and jerked to the side in one quick motion.

And just like that, the stench was gone, replaced by the smell of his angel's skin. He breathed it in, only one long, slow inhale before his breath caught in his throat. The angel's soft lips rested gently against his own, and he let go of the bloodied man, hands falling limp to his side.

Whimpers and painfully hoarse sounding coughs echoed off the tall walls of the alley as the pair of them stood there almost still as a statue, lips barely touching, and Aziraphale's grip on Crowley's face so strong his jaw ached. Crowley brought his hand up to cover Aziraphale's, the blood that covered his fingers making them run smoothly over the meat and bones of his angel's knuckles. It was as perfect of a moment as Crowley could possibly dream up.

But then he remembered whose filthy blood he was spreading over the angel's skin, and his eyes flew open. He went to pull his head back but Aziraphale held on, tightening his grip. Crowley could see his eyes were squeezed shut and his lips were suddenly trembling, but then the pressure increased and suddenly they parted and covered his own. That was all it took to force a loud moan out of Crowley, and Aziraphale flinched back, releasing him.

One step backwards for Aziraphale, two forward for Crowley, and they were pressed against the wall and each other, Crowley's face buried in the crook of his neck as he kissed and licked and nuzzled. God, it was so _different_ , Crowley had never touched skin like this before, Aziraphale really was some sort of angelic being and he just kept bloody letting Crowley _have_ him, let him do things that shouldn't ever be done to angels, like hurting them or rubbing against them in a dirty alley as you breathe in the dizzying smell of their open wound. Aziraphale's hands were pushing against his chest and Crowley pushed back, raising his hands to press the angel's shoulders back, then running them down the smaller man's arms.

Crowley nearly bit his own tongue off when Aziraphale's shoulder suddenly jerked, knocking his jaw. He raised his head.

"Crowley, m-my arm," his angel said, looking at him with wide eyes and shaking pitifully in Crowley's hold. "I- I need to go to the hospital."

Crowley dropped his head to the side and stared at the cut barely visible through the torn shirt. "I can do it."

"N-No."

"It's just a cut," he breathed in a strange voice, reaching up to part the shirt with two careful fingers. "I can--"

"I said _no_!" Aziraphale exclaimed, slamming his hands against Crowley's chest hard enough to tip him off balance and send him stumbling two steps back.

Both of them kept the distance as they stared at each other, one confused by the other's anger, one angered by the other's confusion. When Crowley took an unconscious step towards him again, the anger on Aziraphale's face was replaced by fear only for a few moments before his lips pressed back into a determined thin line, and he stomped his foot against the ground.

"Stop it! Can't you see I'm uncomfortable? You're scaring me!"

Crowley flinched visibly. "But we..." his toes curled painfully into the ground as he willed himself to stay where he was and not move any closer to his angel. "You kissed--"

"You were going to _murder_ _him_!" Aziraphale shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the red smudge on the wall near him.

Crowley stared at the dark blood smudges and the memories of everything that had happened suddenly flashed before him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few breaths and swallowed down the acid that threatened to rise up his throat. Was the kiss only meant as some sort of distraction? Crowley glanced around and saw the man was gone. It was true - the kiss wasn't for Crowley at all, it was for the thief. Aziraphale was only trying to save the man Crowley was saving _him_ from. _Of course_ his angel would show mercy even to the undeserving waste of space who had attacked him, tried to steal from him, wasted the precious blood, put his disgusting, filthy, piss-stained paws--

"H-he only... He was just some desperate child, Crowley, he only wanted some money!"

" _Everybody wants money!_ " Crowley spat and immediately cringed at the unkind tone that sounded uncannily like mother's. "He was... He was going to hurt you, angel. He _did_ hurt you."

Aziraphale seemed to deflate slightly at the words and he gave Crowley a sad look. "He didn't deserve a broken face for that."

"No, I know," Crowley said immediately. "Of course. You're right." _He deserved a lot more than that_.

His angel dropped his eyes to the ground. "You weren't going to stop," he said quietly in a shaky voice. "You don't know when to stop."

An angel shedding tears because it found something so unlovable even it couldn't love it. Crowley swallowed and licked his dry lips, staring hard at the blonde man's watery blue eyes and trembling mouth. There was nothing Crowley could do or say to change anything now - what he had done or what he was or how he felt. Or _didn't_ feel. It was true, he wasn't going to stop, and his angel knew that now.

The situation was hopeless and there was no escaping the inevitable.

Unless, of course, you were a _social snake in the grass that slithers and smiles their way in to your life and emotions_ , which - as quoted by his first true love and QEDed by his death - Crowley most certainly was. It was a bit like a superpower sometimes.

And so, he slithered.

"You stopped me though."

Aziraphale looked at him.

"I don't know what I would have done if... I mean, I... only stopped because of you. _For_ you. I would always stop for you." Aziraphale's eyes darted away at that, then back to Crowley. "I'm... I'm _better_ when you're around."

He could see Aziraphale's eyes continue to soften and he wondered whether the look would turn into one of love and adoration if he just kept going on and on.

And perhaps he should have, because the moment he stopped talking, the angel frowned and looked back down. "You were in this situation to begin with _because_ of me."

Crowley quickly turned his annoyance into a self-deprecating huff. "I would've gotten into something one way or another, angel, that's not the point."

Aziraphale swallowed uncomfortably but didn't look up.

Crowley looked down at the ground too then, sighing quietly. "And then, you know, the kiss... I thought..."

"What?" Aziraphale prompted gently and Crowley just shrugged. He could tell by the sound of his voice that Aziraphale was watching him now.

"I guess I just thought you cared about me, is all. But it didn't mean anything, I understand that, you were just..." he shook his head, "It's fine, I get it, it was stupid of me."

He chanced a quick glance at his angel and saw him worrying his bottom lip with a worried frown, eyes darting around. "Crowley, I... Of course I care about you, that's not-"

"And just because I'm so much better when you're around doesn't mean you _have_ to spend time with me, you know, I'm not your responsibility," Crowley continued quickly. "You've already put up with me for so long, I didn't even-"

"I don't _put up_ with you, Crowley! I'll have you know I enjoy our times together immensely!"

Crowley looked at him with hopeful eyes, then grimaced and looked away again. "Yeah, you sure enjoyed yourself tonight," he said almost too quiet for Aziraphale to hear, then waited, staring at his feet in silence.

"Well, it... It did go downhill before you even arrived, so I suppose it's not entirely your fault," Aziraphale said in a forced light tone and Crowley just shrugged before slumping his shoulders even more pathetically. "...A-Actually, I was quite terrified, to be perfectly honest, I thought..." Aziraphale swallowed nervously, trying to still his voice that was still trembling from fear and anger and uncertainty, "I-I thought he was going to kill me. Perhaps he would have. So... thank you."

Crowley raised his head slowly and their eyes met again. Aziraphale gave him a small encouraging smile and Crowley returned a self-deprecating one - the one that used to work like a charm on Anathema back in the day.

"I don't deserve a thank you," he said softly, letting his smile fade away. "I scared you."

Aziraphale bit his lip nervously, lifting his good arm to scratch the back of his neck. "W-Well, I... I do scare so very easily. Everybody says so."

 _You should be scared_ , Crowley thought. _There's people out there who would do just about anything to have you_.

"Let me drive you home. This dirty alley is no place for angels."

Aziraphale blushed. "To the _hospital_ , you mean," he said as they started to walk, Aziraphale keeping much closer to him than Crowley would have expected.

"Yes. To the hospital, that's what I said. I keep telling you, you need to have that checked out by a _real_ doctor, Aziraphale."

He glanced sideways to see his angel roll his eyes and smile bashfully, and Crowley's own lips twitched into a sincere smile.


	15. I Drink The Honey Inside Your Hive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to sweetcrispyjesus for making this my first ever beta-read chapter! 😊❤

Crowley was speeding through the streets like Aziraphale's life depended on it, and every time they approached a corner and were about to make a turn, Aziraphale would watch discreetly from the corner of his eye how Crowley's hand tightened around the steering wheel right before turning it, then loosened to allow the leather to slide back beneath his fingers. Aziraphale's eyes darted guiltily back to his lap quickly, feeling utterly scandalized by his own behavior.

Like every other part of his body, Crowley's hands were simply beautiful, and Aziraphale could hardly be blamed for noticing, but there really was no need to _ogle_ either. Especially not when the blood on them had barely finished drying and Aziraphale didn't even know whether or not the man to whom it belonged was still breathing.

 _Let him who is without sin cast the first stone_ , Aziraphale thought to himself when they were about to make another right turn and his eyes darted quickly to the steering wheel once again.

It wasn't as if this was the first time he was noticing Crowley's hands either, if he was being perfectly honest with himself; in fact, he had been admiring them ever since that night they first met-wrapped around a glass, an envelope, Aziraphale's wrist. Nearly everything was strikingly beautiful about the man-he could be downright irresistible when Aziraphale was drunk enough to forget just how terrifying it was to even be in his presence, let alone... do the things Aziraphale had done.

Now all he could think of was the predatory grace and malevolent calmness with which Crowley had stalked towards him after they had kissed, and how much the look Crowley had given that poor man with a broken face reminded him of the looks he sometimes gave Aziraphale. He wondered whether he and the thief also shared the same reaction to it-panicked breathing, heart clenching painfully. Nothing short of your life flashing before your eyes as you realize you are alone and helpless with an utterly unpredictable, violent man who could do things to you that have quite possibly never before even crossed anyone's mind in the history of mankind. Living in fear for days, constantly having the unnerving feeling that the redhead was about to jump out of a dark corner and snatch you up.

Of course, the alley man would most likely be relieved when that didn’t happen, whereas Aziraphale... Well, Aziraphale seemed to be suspended in a superposition of being both terrified that it would happen and worried that it wouldn't. There was no one to save Aziraphale from the fate he had saved that robber from because he didn't want to be saved. Not when those big, hungry eyes were all he could think of, all the time.

"So I suppose you've been following me."

Crowley must have been deep in thought as well judging by the way he jumped at Aziraphale's sudden attempt at conversation.

"Er," he said eloquently, eyes glued on the road. "Not really."

"What does that mean, not really?"

Crowley shrugged, letting go of the steering wheel for a moment to make a complicated gesture with his hands as means of explanation, and they went back to silence.

"You know, I wish you had just-" Aziraphale started and was interrupted by an unnecessarily fast and sharp turn, his hands gripping his seat tightly to balance himself. He shot Crowley an annoyed sidelong glance. "I've... Well, I've missed you."

Crowley made a choking sound that quickly turned into a cough, then he cleared his throat and said nothing in reply. They drove in silence again, Crowley stepping on the gas every time Aziraphale glanced over or opened his mouth to speak again, so he gave up his attempts and turned to look out the window.

"Why are you still working there?" Crowley asked suddenly in a casual voice, finally glancing over. "Actually, why are you still working, period? Or, er, question mark. You're a millionaire, aren't you?"

Aziraphale held back a grimace, eyes darting away. "Er, well."

"What? What's that look?"

Aziraphale stopped himself from squirming in his seat and straightened his back. "If you must know, I gave it away."

"You... You gave it away?" Crowley gawked, head darting between Aziraphale and the road. "But you..."

"What was I supposed to do with a million pounds, Crowley? I mean, really, it's-"

"Oh, I don't know. Pay your bills. Buy a mansion. Have fresh pastries flown in from France every morning," Crowley said, gesturing wildly with his hands.

Aziraphale found himself smiling despite his best effort to resist.

"Hire a bodyguard so I don't have to follow you around," Crowley continued and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Buy expensive silk sheets for the angel nest you call a bed," he added, shooting Aziraphale a playful smile.

Aziraphale looked away as soon as he comprehended the words, his cheeks burning, and he made a sound embarrassingly close to a giggle.

"Quit that humiliating job, at least."

Aziraphale's smile fell and he turned to face Crowley's side. "I have, actually, Sunday is my last day. And there's nothing wrong with being a bartender. It's honest work," he said proudly and turned away. "In fact, I can think of much more humiliating ways of earning money."

The last part was murmured quietly enough that Crowley could pretend not to have heard it.

"Honest work is for people who've got nothing else to offer," Crowley said. "Watching you... serve drinks and mop floors and take tips from those sleazy bloody-"

"Sorry, are you describing the night we met?"

"Don't compare me to them," Crowley said sharply.

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. "There's no one I could possibly compare you to, Crowley," he returned irritably.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Well it certainly wasn't intended as one," Aziraphale bit out, then quickly turned his head to look out the window, willing himself not to feel guilty for the remark.

"You seem upset," Crowley said, sounding completely unfazed.

"Oh?" Aziraphale spat, his head snapping back to Crowley. "What reason could I possibly have to be upset with you? It's not as if you threatened me and hurt me and then just left me there, confused and drunk and injured! Then you ignore my calls and texts for weeks, except it turns out you've been stalking me the entire time and when you finally do show up, you nearly murder a man in front of me! I wonder why I could possibly be upset with you, Crowley!"

Nothing this man did ever made a lick of sense. He would do all these-these terrible things to him, wouldn't respect his boundaries, would even flat out ignore his pleas to stop (something Aziraphale absolutely did not allow himself to think about), only to push him away whenever Aziraphale finally, finally got the courage to admit (to himself and to Crowley) that he liked him more than was necessarily appropriate, that he didn't only like the good bits but the bad ones as well, that he was willing to risk his safety for... for their friendship, willing to bet on Crowley.

It angered Aziraphale to think that Crowley saw him that way-a helpless little satellite in his orbit that needed help escaping, like Aziraphale wasn't a grown man capable of making his own decisions, like he couldn't actually want to be there, trapped securely in that orbit around him. But the thing that infuriated him most of all was that Crowley saw himself like that-someone who could only ever be wanted, or even just accepted, by someone who was trapped, or tricked or bribed or threatened.

And so when Crowley looked at Aziraphale with those big golden eyes and smiled that sad smile at him, Aziraphale could barely hold back from throwing his arms around the beautiful man and telling him to stop-stop pretending to be whatever it was he thought Aziraphale needed him to be, stop saying what he thought he needed to hear.

Aziraphale was not a complete fool. He knew damn well Crowley's act was just a desperate attempt at burying his claws back into the flesh of Aziraphale's heart, to guilt him into staying even after everything Aziraphale had just witnessed.

But even if the words coming out of Crowley's mouth were untrue and insincere, even if his intentions were immoral, the reason behind it all still mattered. Aziraphale had seen too much of Crowley to believe he was an unfeeling machine who was simply very good at mimicking emotion. The idea seemed utterly absurd to Aziraphale who was convinced that Crowley's actions came from a place of real emotion, as real as anyone else's, only experienced... differently.

Fear of not being enough or being too much, the trauma of having been seen and rejected, the endless worrying that you'll reveal some unacceptable part of yourself, not knowing it was wrong until you witness someone recoil. What if these fears were the things that were really preventing Crowley from growing and changing, as opposed to his supposed intrinsic inability to feel empathy and regret?

Crowley had said that Aziraphale couldn't handle seeing him without being afraid, and it was true. But the thing Crowley seemed to be most afraid of, the thing he was unwilling to accept-or at least so Aziraphale had concluded after many sleepless nights after that evening in the park-was being seen and still wanted. How difficult that must be to accept when you've believed the opposite your entire life, and how terrifying to open yourself to the possibility of being proven you were right all along.

And yet despite the fear, Crowley couldn't seem to keep away. Just like Aziraphale.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the car suddenly came to a stop in the hospital's parking lot. Everything was quiet except for the sound of the engine running and the soft buzz as the windows rolled down halfway suddenly, allowing cool air to rush in. Crowley reached for the key in the ignition, twisting and pulling, and the car fell silent.

"I... I'm sorry, I was only..." Aziraphale swallowed loudly, suddenly feeling very guilty for the way he had reacted. "I am upset with you but I shouldn't have said all those things."

Crowley didn't react at all, just kept sitting there like a statue illuminated by the hospital lights coming in through the windshield, his hands still resting on the wheel as he stared ahead in silence.

"Thank you for the ride," Aziraphale said politely with a sudden urge to flee, but when he turned to open the door, he found that it was locked. Pressing and pulling every lever and button he could find, he felt a tiny spark of panic run though him when the door still wouldn't budge.

"Crowley, how do I—the door is-"

"So you do remember, then," Crowley said quietly from behind him. "What I told you I would do. And what I told you to do."

Aziraphale stilled and swallowed heavily. "Yes, I... Of course I remember," he said with a remarkably steady voice. He remained facing the door, his hand still wrapped around the handle like he expected it to start working any moment, but the dubious silence just dragged on, seemingly stretching out seconds into minutes.

"You act ssso bloody innocent," the redhead hissed suddenly, breaking the silence, and Aziraphale's breath hitched at the sudden change of tone. "But you want terrible things too, don't you?"

Aziraphale remained facing the door, unable to turn around despite suddenly feeling very exposed and vulnerable, the nerve endings on his back tingling in fearful anticipation.

"I know your kind, angel, I know what you need," Crowley drawled, voice like poisoned honey, and Aziraphale felt frozen in his seat even as he heard the rustling of Crowley's clothes.

"I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about," he managed in a voice not nearly as confident as he had hoped, but still more than he felt.

"I think you do," came the voice much closer than before and the shock of it finally allowed Aziraphale to move, twisting around to finally face Crowley whose lips curved in a small smile. "I think you lie in bed every night just praying I'll sneak in through the window while you sleep and force you to do all the things you want but won't let yourself have."

Aziraphale gasped loudly, twisting forward in his seat.

"I... How dare you!" he bit out when he could control his voice, his heart hammering wildly, and he could see from the corner of his eye as Crowley's smile widened.

"Tell me, have you given in to the temptation yet? Have you touched yourself while thinking about how you put yourself on display for me?"

Aziraphale looked stricken, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger as he struggled to find the words, but Crowley wasn't in a waiting mood.

"Why did you do all those awful things for money you didn't even really need?" he asked in mock confusion as he inched closer, and Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden feeling of a warm breath on his neck but he remained still. "How lucky you must have felt, to be given an excuse like that..."

"You're wrong."

"Why did you get into my car?"

"Because I—I needed a-"

"Why did you kiss me?" he asked, dry lips brushing Aziraphale's neck as he spoke.

"Because you-you were--I-" Aziraphale kept swallowing the words, his throat feeling tight and constricted, but Crowley ignored him again.

"So many things you could've done and that was the first thing that popped into your head?"

Aziraphale struggled to come up with an explanation and Crowley continued without pause.

“And then you let me touch you..." he whispered, and Aziraphale jumped in his seat when cold fingers spread gently across the back of his neck, "and taste you..." Crowley continued relentlessly, his tongue darting out so quickly and lightly Aziraphale might have only imagined it, "...and then you push me away. I should have just kept going. Right? That's the mistake I've been making," Crowley breathed into his neck.

Aziraphale felt dizzy from how long he'd been holding his breath, struggling to fully process Crowley's words. Every inch of his neck where Crowley had put his lips was burning in anticipation of the warm and soft pressure returning, and he nearly keened when it came back wet and hard and demanding, teeth scraping and pulling at the thin, sensitive skin.

Aziraphale found himself beginning to shiver violently, dampened only by Crowley's strong hold on his neck, and by the time Crowley's mouth had dragged and bit and licked it's way up to his ear, the hand around his neck was holding him so tightly he could feel himself becoming lightheaded from the pressure.The grip tightened momentarily before mercifully releasing his neck completely, the hand travelling up to grab Aziraphale's chin, pulling at it so they were face to face. Aziraphale's neck ached as he stared into Crowley's darkened eyes that had latched onto him like a pair of Dementors. "Crowley--"

Suddenly, Crowley's hand wrapped around his arm just below the cut, and the unexpected pain pulsed through his arm and shoulder, twisting his stomach.

"D-Don't touch me there--!" Aziraphale gasped, jerking his head free from Crowley's grip but his arm remained trapped.

"Why not?"

"It hurts," he said uselessly, trying to shrink into his seat but otherwise remaining still even as Crowley's thumb snaked in through the hole in his sleeve, stretching it open.

"You like it when I hurt you," Crowley said, and it wasn't a question.

He shook his head wildly, his lips trembling.

"You do. You like it."

"No."

Crowley tightened his grip-only barely, just to remind him he could. "Perhaps I even interrupted something in that alley? Were you enjoying yourself, bleeding and trembling in fear?" he asked cruelly, thumb rubbing dangerously close to the wound.

Aziraphale looked mortified. "You--!"

"Or is it only when I do it?"

All he could feel was Crowley's breath over his wound, and he squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his body tensing and shivering violently.

"Tell me it's just me, angel. Tell me I'm the only one."

Crowley's voice sounded like it was coming from far away, and suddenly the tip of a nail was pressing and dragging around the wound, tracing the edge of the broken skin, and Aziraphale could no longer hold back a sob at the sickly pain that shot throughout his arm and shoulder combined with the cruel and degrading words that kept coming out of Crowley's mouth.

"J-Just you."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Crowley made a sound like he had just been punched in the gut, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to a look of complete disbelief on the redhead's face. He stared into Aziraphale's eyes with his mouth slightly open and that far gone look in his eye that made Aziraphale feel like a chicken who had just cut its own head off and laid itself on a silver platter before a starving fox.

Crowley licked his lips absentmindedly before he began to dip his head again, lowering it towards his neck and Aziraphale's skin tingled again in anticipation. He could barely keep still, torn between the urge to bend and expose his neck, and flinging himself out the window.

But Crowley ignored his neck, moving slowly past it and before Aziraphale could realize what was happening, a warmth enveloped the pulsating pain on his arm and then turned into pressure as Crowley’s tongue pressed hard and flat against it. It moved then, sliding roughly across the entire wound and it hurt, really hurt, and not in any sort of playful way, and when he went to jerk his arm away, Crowley held on. The tip of his tongue pressed inside and Aziraphale could no longer keep quiet. He didn't recognize his own voice as he let out a scream, his arm still pulsing with pain even after Crowley had moved, raising his head to face Aziraphale with blood like smeared lipstick on his face. His eyes were still wide with disbelief as he grabbed Aziraphale's chin roughly and Aziraphale snapped out of his trance.

"C-Crowley, I-I--"

"It's alright, my angel," he whispered, his other hand sliding around Aziraphale's neck to hold him more firmly. "I'm not going to let you go."

Aziraphale shivered as his stomach twisted with fear at the same time a rush of pleasure ran through him. He squeezed his eyes shut again, turning away and pressing against the car door.

"No," Crowley said, tugging the angel's chin and pulling him closer by his neck. "Look at me."

Aziraphale opened his eyes immediately and the corners of Crowley's mouth twitched into a small smile. Aziraphale's eyes immediately darted away at the sight of the blood.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

"Crowley, please, I--I can't," Aziraphale said in a breathy voice.

"It's okay," Crowley coaxed gently, his hand sliding from the wound and down his arm, then resting just above Aziraphale's knee. "You can fight me."

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut again and shook his head urgently. "I don't want this," he said firmly.

"Mmm," Crowley hummed happily, "sure looks like it," he said and Aziraphale could hear the smile. His eyes flew open to stare down into his lap and he realized with dread that he was erect, and Crowley--Crowley saw it too, Crowley whose hand was now sliding higher up his thigh, inching closer to Aziraphale's source of embarrassment. "Must be the cold."

Aziraphale's hand flew out and caught Crowley's just in time to prevent it from reaching a place Aziraphale was not ready for it to reach, but Crowley immediately grabbed it with his other hand, yanking it off roughly. Aziraphale felt the ghost of the pain he felt in the park when Crowley had treated him so cruelly, and then suddenly there were fingers sliding over the bulge in his pants. Aziraphale struggled to breathe, chest heaving. "N-No!" he gasped, "Don't, don't, don't-"

He was shaking now and flailing his other hand around blindly until he managed to slap Crowley's hand away, only for it to shoot back at him like a snake and then both of his wrists were trapped in a crushing grip.

Aziraphale's heart rate tripled in a millisecond, his ragged breaths growing so loud he couldn't hear anything else. He twisted to look at Crowley who had that terrifying look in his eye-that same hungry stare he had when he had watched Aziraphale shiver pathetically in the snow, telling him he wanted to consume him and looking like he meant it literally. When Aziraphale had thought he would die, really die, and Crowley's warmth was the only thing keeping him alive, and Crowley had just kept touching him and wouldn't stop. He didn't even stop when... when Aziraphale had begged, just like he didn't stop in the park, or in the alley, and now, now he was--

"LET ME GO!!" he screamed so loudly that Crowley must have been knocked away by the sound wave itself.

His hands suddenly free, he scrambled for the handle but the door still wasn't opening and Aziraphale struggled to draw in panicked breaths. He slammed his fists against the door and clawed at it, but the door wouldn't budge.

He was nearly about to try and squeeze himself through the crack in the window when he was suddenly grabbed by the shoulder and pressed back into his seat. His eyes widened in terror when Crowley leaned over, reaching across him for the door. There was a beeping sound and he must have pressed something because the door cracked open and Aziraphale flung himself at it, tumbling out of the car ungracefully. He scrambled backwards a few feet until his back hit something-another car-and then collapsed on the asphalt.

By the time he looked up, Crowley was already backing up and then driving away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - comments and feedback very welcome as always!


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